


stasis and imbalance

by gudetama (elementary)



Series: Creatures AU [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Antagonism, Credence Barebone Lives, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Dark Newt Scamander, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Gen, Not Happy, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Please read the notes at the beginning!, Power Imbalance, Vampire Newt, Vampire Theseus, Werewolf Original Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-12-01 16:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11490570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/gudetama
Summary: Every vampire has their own vice, and Artemis 'Newt' Scamander is no exception. His happens to be collecting exotic, magical creatures and keeping them as pets.His latest interest has him heading for New York where he is determined to foil anyone else's plans to accomplish his goal. However, he doesn't expect to get distracted by the presence of another creature...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Please heed the tags! This isn't typical in that some characters are of inhuman origin and therefore don't function with the same moral codes and concepts. Newt is a predator in this and doesn't change miraculously into a sweet, loving person.
> 
> (Spoiler-ish?) The tag 'dubious consent' refers to Percival's situation in which he chooses not out of choice but because there is no other, so if that makes you uncomfortable, please feel free to go back.
> 
> Otherwise, thanks for reading!

Newt has heard the whispers on the streets, throughout the towns, the communities—specifically, his community. His children have already sensed his excitement for the latest chase and the younger ones are asking to go with him, but he disappoints them. He hasn’t yet succeeded in capturing a live one, always unable to save the host, but he’s hoping it will be different this time. So, unfortunately for them, he will be going alone in order to maintain absolute control over the course of this hunt. The rumours say it’s lurking in the city of New York in America and it’s good since he has been rather bored, lately, and could use a change in sights.

He packs his belongings with anticipation and soothes his upset children, promising to bring them home some American delicacies. That has the desired effect of pacifying them and then they’re busy telling him all the things they want.

“Now, now, don’t be greedy, darlings,” Newt chuckles. “Papa’s memory isn’t as good as it used to be.”

“It isn’t good to lie, Papa,” Lily pouts.

Newt leans down and kisses Lily’s forehead after brushing her hair back. “It’s true, love; I’ve recently forgotten all about how you were very bad last month, disobeying a direct order.”

Lily stiffens, her large green eyes gaining a tint of fear as she swallows, then bows her head. “Oh, I—thank you, Papa.”

“There’s a good girl,” Newt croons, then proceeds to give the rest of his young ones a kiss. “I won’t be gone long, so be good for your uncle, please. Off you go.”

There’s a chorus of ‘yes, Papa,’ before they scurry out of the room, and Newt finally finishes packing in peace. He contemplates which outfit to wear to blend in properly since he hasn’t been out of the country in some years. There’s a knock on his door which he ignores, since it will open anyway. And it does.

“Where are you headed off to this time, Artemis?” Theseus asks from the doorway.

“New York, dear brother,” Newt replies, not looking away from his closet. “They say I might be interested in what possibly resides there.”

Theseus sighs. “I thought you’d be occupied by that little mole thing a little while longer—no, not that hideous one. Try the grey coat.”

Newt slips on the ‘hideous’ blue coat to be contrary. “There is only so much entertainment to be had from chasing a niffler around, though it has brought me some nice things.”

“I suppose,” his brother shrugs. “Well, last I heard, those American wizards are ridiculously sensitive about their non-exposure laws so be discreet and prevent yourself unnecessary headaches.”

“Thank you, Theseus; now please sod off.”

“At least brush your hair, you heathen!” Theseus calls out as he walks away.

Newt concedes on that point and brushes his hair back, applying some pomade to keep it out of his face. He notes that he’s running low, and adds that to his growing list of things to buy on this trip. A few minutes later, he’s leaving the manor with his suitcase in hand, dressed for what’s considered to be an especially cold winter—not that it really matters to him, of course. Newt heads for the bank first, tips his hat in greeting and asks the teller to direct to his vault where he withdraws some American currency.

Then he’s on a ship to another continent. There are other convenient ways to travel, but he might as well get accustomed to being around people once again. Ladies and gentlemen alike attempt to engage him in conversation, but he politely declines with a smile and charms them into looking elsewhere for company. Really, they couldn’t be anymore bland if they tried, pretending to be confident and showing off pitiful masks of fragile beauty. They hadn’t even smelled good covered up by layers of artificial scents.

Thankfully, it’s a short trip and before his official business, he makes a brief detour to Arizona.

“Go find a mate and have lots of babies, Frank,” Newt says as he pets the thunderbird for the last time. “I might come back for one of your eggs.”

Frank only stares at him then takes off into the sky, disappearing quickly into the clouds. Newt wonders if the thunderbird will be alright, having spent a longer period in the case than he had originally intended, but he’ll have to wait and see. He decides to leave the desert within his case be for now since doesn't know what creature will take residency next—though if he has his way, he will be expanding the tundra.

The trip back to New York is even more tedious, and he spends most of it reading the latest news. He curls his lip in distaste at the flashy front page and headlines, raving about a dark wizard being a menace, to put it simply. The brief history of this man’s activities is outlined in the article and it reveals that he’s originally from England. That rings a bell in his head, and he vaguely recalls something from some time ago about an upstart mortal wreaking havoc in the wizarding community, labelled as dangerous and criminally insane. It had slipped his mind because the situation was of no consequence to him at the time, but now he regrets minutely his disinterest because the man had been last spotted in New York. If he somehow ruins Newt’s chances this time, he’ll hunt the imbecile down and feed him to his children.

Darkness is prevalent by the time he arrives, and it saves him from needing a disillusionment charm as he starts his search. He moves brusquely through the shadows, using his senses to feel for that distinct concentration of dark energy. He focuses especially on the muggle homes and orphanages where the magic would stick out like a sore fang, then tours around the wizarding ones. The search yields nothing until dawn approaches and it's with some disappointment that he heads towards his residence as the first rays of sun peek over the horizon.

His flat here is pea-sized compared to his manor back home, but it was never meant for a prolonged stay anyway. The decoration and amenities are minimal since he has minimal needs, but he did indulge himself and invest in a telephone, a luxurious bed, and a large bathtub. For all their flaws, humans have a remarkable talent for making their lives comfortable and convenient with ever-developing inventions.

The phone rings just as he finishes his bath, and he isn't surprised the least bit to hear Theseus on the other end.

“What are you, my mother?” Newt greets.

“ _How is New York, Artemis?_ ” Theseus smoothly ignores him.

“Fine. Everything is fine, in fact.”

“ _Except for what you failed to find._ ”

Newt sighs. “It won't be long before I do; it must’ve remained dormant tonight, is all. By the way, what do you know about the Grindylow fellow?”

There’s a pause which sounds distinctly confused at first, then Theseus makes a noise of realisation. “ _You mean Grindelwald?_ ”

“Yes, something like that,” Newt mutters distractedly as he moves about the kitchen with the phone’s cord magically lengthened, looking for a can of tea leaves. “He seems to be near or within the city according to the papers, and I don't want him disturbing my work with his theatrics. I can get rid of him, no?”

And for the second time within a day, his search proves unsuccessful, and it would have put him into a mood if he honestly cared. Instead, he leans against the counter next to the sink and focuses on the conversation for now.

“ _Certainly. You could even leave his body out for someone to find and confirm his death, do them a favour. The Ministry has been squawking about him for some years now like parrots,_ ” and Newt can see him rolling his eyes at this point.

“Then why didn't you deal with him?” he asks, frowning.

“ _Didn’t seem important at the time; you know how_ sensitive _they are with_ dark elements.”

“Or someone is just a lazy git.”

“ _Strong words there, little brother,_ ” Theseus drawls, causing Newt to rolls his eyes. “ _Anyway, the little rascals are already asking about your return. It hasn't even been a month! Is it me or is this generation much too dependent?_ ”

“Both, probably,” Newt chuckles. “And to be fair, I haven't left them once since they were younglings; this is their first time away from me, except for Lily.”

“ _Lily’s a good girl,_ ” Theseus hums. “ _Very mature_.”

“Good, she learned her lesson, then.”

“ _Say, why don't you find yourself a temporary mate while you’re there? Leave the babysitting to them next time_.”

“No, thank you, unless you are planning on dying soon,” Newt says, annoyed. “Aren’t you tired of this conversation? Because I am.”

They've had this same argument for the past couple centuries, although it's nothing compared to what Theseus had to deal with from their parents for a good millennia, according to him. Still, Newt considers himself young and he'd rather not have to divide his attention between more than his children and work just yet.

He bids Theseus a good night and as much as he'd like to, he doesn't bother demanding that the man doesn’t call again during the remainder of his trip since he knows it’s futile. After hanging up, he puts away his belongings in the humble closet and dresser, then lets the niffler go out on a run—getting a bit chubby around the middle, that one is.

The rest of the day passes in the blink of an eye and it's soon night time again. The only thing he finds this time around is William on the inside of jewellery shop’s display window, exhausted from his heist. Newt retrieves the poor thing and he falls asleep in Newt’s arm after barely managing to eat something. In the morning, he shows the niffler an article in the papers about a new, mysterious thief on the streets.

“Too bad they won't be catching you, him?” he says as he watches William roll around on his newly expanded hoard.

The third and fourth nights end much in the same, fruitless way and he decides to look during the day as well. He equips himself with a strong disillusionment charm and anti-glamour spell as to not draw attention when he starts asking questions.

What he sees of interest on the fifth morning is a particularly outspoken woman on the steps of a large bank, warning people about witches. He notes that for a muggle living in the United States—the very city where MACUSA is based, even—where the magical folk strictly keep to themselves due to Rappaport’s Law, she has rather strong beliefs and convictions. This could be something, he thinks, and when the woman engages him in conversation, he stays polite, ambiguous, and generally agreeable. Apparently, she runs an orphanage a few blocks from here and takes obvious pride in ‘enlightening’ the children under her care. The implications nearly has him frowning because honestly, though it's typical of an adult who enjoys their authority over the weak, it’s still tasteless—even he has more class than that. As he turns away, he catches a young lady glaring at him from across the small crowd, biting viciously into a hot dog. Strange girl.

He continues with his investigation, but apart from that suspicious woman and the children of her orphanage he sees handing out fliers, the general population doesn’t seem to share her opinions or knowledge. There are some who are intrigued by it, but it's more so for entertainment than a desire to be convinced.

That night, he heads towards the orphanage after a change of clothes in anticipation of possibly chasing a strong magical being. He drinks from a blood bag as he's walking, humming and skipping along, but a small concentration of dark energy stops him short. It isn't what he's looking for, but the curiosity has him slowing down and he peeks around the corner of a building. Whoever this is took care to hide themselves with magic but it's too weak to distract Newt. He quickly finishes the rest of his drink and vanishes the bag so he can focus on the scene.

Two men are standing at the back of the alley, the taller and younger of the two hunched over and almost swaying towards the older one. The stern-looking man, dressed suavely in a black coat with just as dark hair slicked back, is holding himself in a deliberately open posture as if needing to appear trustworthy. On the other hand, the younger lad is skittish in his gestures and having difficulty maintaining eye contact. They’re standing very closely together and acting suspiciously away from the public under the cover of the night, and well, it's easy to guess where this is heading. Newt is no stranger to depravity, but he raises a brow nonetheless as the older man reassures the younger that it’s okay, and cups his face. Really, it's not a sight he wants to see so he turns away to move on, but the conversation goes in a direction he doesn't expect.

“I don’t know if I can help, Mr. Graves; mother always keeps a strict watch on the younger children so it’d be hard to—”

“That is why you will act as my eyes, dear boy,” the other man says gently, but he sounds wrong to Newt. “If any of them start acting unusual, if you notice any black smoke emitting from them, you need to inform me immediately.”

When Newt looks back around the corner, the boy is watching his companion with wide frightened eyes. “What—what does that mean? Is it an illness?”

The Graves fellow hushes him. “It’s alright, nothing serious if caught early. You must not tell your mother, however; she won’t like such a thing. You know her, how she’s against anything out of the ordinary—which indeed, this ailment is quite unusual—so she might refuse to help them in the name of being rid of sorcery.”

It makes the boy's eyes well with tears and he bows his head in despair—and that’s when Newt sees it: the sympathetic face of Graves dropping away to reveal cold indifference as he pats the boy’s shoulder, reaffirming that only he can help the ‘sick’ child.

“And should you do well in assisting me, Credence, I will be able to help you and your sisters once the child is healed. You may even be able to learn a thing or two.”

Just before Credence raises his head again, the mask is back in place and he looks at Graves with tentative trust. Graves bids him a good night pats him once more before walking towards the mouth of the alley.

Newt takes some steps back then deliberately makes himself heard as he walks forward, and he pretends to be startled when he nearly bumps into Graves. He stutters out apologies and ducks his head shyly when the man scrutinizes him, then Graves mutters an ‘excuse me' after a moment and disappears swiftly down the street. He’s even better-looking up close, and Newt wonders what his agenda is though he has an inkling—what he had explained to that Credence kid is oddly familiar to what Newt himself is seeking. It’d be a shame to get rid of him as well considering how powerful he seems to be if the volume of magic which had drawn him here in the first place is anything to go by. He would’ve made an entertaining toy.

Leaving that line of thought for now, Newt acts like he just noticed Credence who hasn’t moved since Graves’ departure. “Oh, hello there!”

He almost laughs when the boy jumps and looks towards him frantically, tenses up, and Newt thinks he might either run or faint. Fortunately for him, the only way for the young man to run is past Newt. Credence seems to realise that a few seconds later, and he approaches Newt cautiously.

Unlike Graves who had been dressed impeccably with hair properly styled to suit his handsome face, the boy looks like he has been dressed by someone else who barely knows him. He has strong yet delicate features and could be of Newt’s height if he wasn't trying to make himself look smaller. His whole demeanour speaks of distrust and fear.

“Good—good evening, sir,” he says meekly.

“Good evening,” Newt returns, tipping his hat. “I seem to have gotten lost and I was hoping someone could help me. It has been a while since I visited New York, you see.”

Credence nods slowly even though he doesn't look like he wants to.

“Great,” Newt continues, feigning ignorance. “All I know is that there is an orphanage around here somewhere. I reckon they won't allow visitors anymore this late but I’d still like to see it so I know where to go next time.”

Credence’s eyes widen in recognition. “Oh, I'm actually—” then he gapes, paling, and lowers his head. “I'm from there, but please don't tell my mother you saw me, please. I—I wasn’t supposed to be—”

He sounds close to tears and Newt wants to sigh at how difficult he's being and is already regretting his choice of target; but instead he says, “Ah, sneaking out for a bit of fun, are you? Don't worry, I know a thing or two about having a rebellious streak when you're younger.”

It makes Credence peek up at him nervously, but he’s no longer shaking.

“The point is not to get caught, hm?” and when he grins, the boy’s lips twitch in a poor imitation of one but it's a small success. “Speaking of, I must've caught you at a good time. That man from before, was he being a bother to you?”

“No, sir,” Credence shakes his head. “That gentleman, um, he was helping me with something.”

“Something,” Newt drags out the word, colouring it with suspicion. “At night, in an alleyway. I feel like I should be worried.”

He holds back a grin as the boy becomes flustered, stammering nonsensical, vague explanations using words like ‘fulfilling needs’ and ‘kind and gentle’. If Newt didn't already know, he would have thought it a euphemism for something else. He takes rare pity on the kid and tells him it’s okay, that he isn’t obligated to explain, and Credence immediately falls quiet.

“Shall we get going? I’m Newt, by the way,” and he extends a hand.

Credence takes it in a surprisingly firm grip and as expected, there is no recognition of his name. “Credence Barebone, sir.”

“Hello, Credence, it’s nice to meet you,” Newt nods. “And no need to be so formal, since I’ll be in your care; Newt is fine.”

The young man turns away bashfully, but nods and mutters, “Right this way, Mr. Newt,” as he starts walking.

Newt follows behind leisurely, eyeing Credence with scrutiny. From what he can sense, there is nothing remarkable about the boy except he carries much pain within him. His reaction to the mention of his own mother obviously tells of the abusive environment he is living in, and it isn’t surprising since Newt had found Mary Lou Barebone to be full of considerable anger.

But... something about this one bothers him. It isn’t that someone is using him to aim for Newt’s target and he has no sympathies for the boy’s situation. Yet it’s something and Newt isn’t one to ignore his instincts.

“Credence,” Newt calls, then lengthens his stride to catch up to him. “You seem to have a tendency for trusting strange men.”

Credence glances at him strangely. “How do you mean?”

“The fact that you’re walking alone with me this time of night and taking me where I want to go,” Newt says just as they arrive at the entrance of the orphanage, “after having known me for not even a few minutes.”

The boy tenses, hunching his shoulders up to his ears. “That’s—”

“Do you listen to anyone who’s nice to you, Credence?” he says lightly. “That can be dangerous, you know.”

“What do you—are you trying to tell me something?” Credence asks, voice tight.

In that moment, in a sharp spike of the other’s fear and adrenaline, something flashes across Newt’s senses and it isn’t just the emotionally-enhanced scent of blood. _How interesting_.

Newt hums. “Just that you should be careful; not everyone is genuine in their kindness. A nice, young lad like you helping a poor, lost tourist like me—this is a situation that could have gone differently, if you know what I mean.” He smiles disarmingly when Credence looks at him again. “But you can trust me.”

The lie rolls effortlessly off his tongue, practiced from numerous encounters with his intended victims.

Silence passes between them, then at last, Credence says, “Isn’t that what people you shouldn’t trust usually say?”

“Oh dear, is that how it goes?” Newt chuckles, winking, and the boy starts to relax.

“Thank you, Mr. Newt,” Credence says to the ground. “For your concern.”

“ _I_ should be thanking you, actually. You’ve done me a great favour,” Newt says, glancing at the building then back. “Did you want me to distract your mother while you sneak back in?”

Credence's head snaps back up, eyes wide and face full of nerves, but he shakes his head. “It’s fine, I’ll be alright.”

“Then I suppose I will take my leave. Perhaps I will see you tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Credence blinks. “Will you be coming here?”

“That is the plan, unless I get lost again,” and the words draw a small but genuine smile from the young man. Really, all because he said to trust him and smiled a few times—well, that isn’t exactly fair. His charms are difficult to resist even with anti-glamour so he can’t completely blame the kid.

“Perhaps, then,” Credence says shyly. “Good night, Mr. Newt.”

“Good night, Credence.”

Newt watches him scurry off around the side of the building then starts making his own way back. He’s torn between happiness at his progress and annoyance at the work cut out for him. To think that the child would be well-hidden like this, and not only that, someone else seems to be searching for it as well. But he reminds himself that the possibility of capturing one that’s alive will be worth the time and effort. His sources haven’t told him that it left the city yet, so he must be on the right track.

Tomorrow, he’ll see the children one at a time and hopefully be able to detect some sort of sign. And Credence bears some further investigation as well, unexpectedly. Before Newt had provoked him, he didn’t feel like anything else other than a plain muggle, but that brief instance of energy says otherwise. While he observes, he will need to convince the boy not to deliver information to Graves, but that's of secondary importance; if anything, he can intercept the meetings himself should it be necessary.

No one will be allowed to stand in his way, and if it results in a body or two, then so be it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just keeps getting weirder, but I have no regrets. And unfortunately, I have my week-long exam this week which will definitely cut into my writing time. But the good news is that I don't think this story will be very long, maybe another three, four chapters.
> 
> You guys are too sweet, by the way. Thanks for reading!

It's hard to say whether sitting through half an hour (and goodness it feels much longer than that) of arbitrarily justified vitriol is worth getting to meet each child personally. He’s sitting on a chaise across from the woman who will not stop talking, and he’s glad for at least the table between them so he can stare at it instead. When Mary Lou finally realises her appalling manners and orders Credence to bring them coffee (tea for Newt, of course), both he and the boy share a look of relief behind her back. If discretion and subtlety weren't key to his research, he would have set her aflame _yesterday._ She then asks him who he has in mind and finally he is able to talk.

At his request to see all of them for himself, the woman eyes him with poorly concealed annoyance but she smiles and grits through her teeth an order for one of the older girls to collect all the children and bring them down. Newt smiles back just as pretentiously and starts inquiring about how she runs the place, if other orphanages are like this one, if it’s even legal to use the children under her care to further her personal agendas. It makes her look down her nose at him in disdain, clearly used to hearing some variation of the last question.

“This isn’t a personal agenda, Mr. Schmidt,” she sniffs haughtily. “It’s my duty as a citizen of our country to warn others of danger that they cannot see for their own safety and protection.”

He's more than used to hearing some variation of _that_ excuse and Newt inwardly sighs. Thankfully, the pitter-patter of multiple light footsteps prevent any further conversation and soon the children appear, obediently lining themselves from youngest to oldest—a total of nine including the supposedly adopted Barebones. Their nervousness is palpable, almost cloying in its compounded state as he eyes them. He automatically dismisses the older ones looking roughly about thirteen to fifteen as well as Credence, which leaves six. A closer look as he walks by them has them stiffening, and he frowns because it’s unheard of to have such a hold over irrepressible magic by this age when even the slightest stimulus induces a strong emotional reaction, resulting in loss of control. Yet, not a lick of energy emerges.

He glances briefly at Credence, and the boy blinks back curiously until Mary Lou barks at him to keep his eyes on the ground, the damn woman. A dark expression falls over the boy's face even as it turns red, and he apologises.

“Ms. Barebone,” Newt calls as he turns towards her, “I’m afraid they don't quite resemble who I’m searching for, but thank you for your assistance.”

He returns to his spot as Mary Lou waves the children away and picks up the cup of tea made for him. Goodness, if the woman tries to smile anymore after this she could very well pull a muscle in her face.

“I’m glad, Mr. Schmidt, though I’m sorry to hear that,” she replies with forced sympathies. “Who did you say it was that you’re seeking?”

He didn’t, and he doesn’t know why this is even important but he humours her. “A possible niece or nephew of mine. My brother recently found out that he has an illegitimate child here who might have been abandoned by the mother. You know how these things are.” Newt then takes care to look extra put-upon.

Mary Lou shoots him a scandalised glare. “I wouldn’t know of such vulgarity.”

“Right,” Newt smiles, takes a sip of his tea and almost spits it back out. “Of course.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Actually, since you're so generously offering, I’m hoping to have Credence show me around the city during my hopefully brief stay.” He hunches in on himself a bit to give the impression of vulnerability. “He was awfully kind to me when I lost my way, you see, and it’s difficult to find anyone trustworthy as a foreigner.” At the end, he looks up through the fringes of his pomade-free hair.

Despite his usual pity-garnering gestures, he can tell she wants to refuse which doesn't surprise him; her character is something else, and the only difference between her and what mankind perceives to be a monster is that she's biologically human. So Newt increases his Charm and her decision sways in his favour. Though he counts this place as a loss, he’d like to keep an eye on the boy a little while longer as he continues his search.

With a promise to return soon, he bids the woman a good afternoon and winks at Credence, who had been eavesdropping from the stairs, on his way out.

Newt picks up a new supply of pomade and several bags of candy from a sweets store. Theseus had once told him that he should be grateful for his undead nature otherwise all his teeth would have rotted and fallen out ages ago, and Newt admits it. There’s nothing quite like rolling about a hard ball of flavoured sugar in your mouth as it melts, crushing it to pieces between the teeth approximately halfway through, then letting the jagged pieces dissolve on the tongue; perhaps it's a texture thing, he doesn't know, but it's a satisfying experience he indulges in every once in a while. It's especially nice to have a flavour-of-the-day coating his tongue when he chooses to feed, and he has gotten some interesting combinations before.

He reminds himself as he pops in a third one that he needs to take some home for the kids.

 

 

 

Four days and another orphanage later, he sees Graves again. The man visibly has less patience than last time as he speaks to Credence, again in an alleyway at night, again looking like a scene of imminent debauchery. He sure likes touching the boy albeit it is rougher than before. Currently, he has a hand firmly on Credence’s chest, holding him against the wall and talking in a low, urgent tone.

“—and I'm afraid time is of the essence, my boy,” Newt hears as he happens upon them.

“I know, Mr. Graves, but something like that—it isn't easy to spot when I've never seen it before,” Credence shakes his head.

Graves tuts at him. “You aren't looking hard enough, Credence. If you are sincere about helping this child, you will find it.” He steps back and smooths his face into something gentler. “But I understand; you've been rather busy with a new friend.”

Credence's eyes widen. “Oh, that isn’t—he only needed a bit of help.”

“There is no need to explain,” Graves shakes his head. “It’s good that you’re making friends, but I'd like to remind you what your priority is.”

“Yes, sir,” Credence mutters, almost flinching when Graves grasps his shoulder.

“That's all I need, my boy,” Graves says softly, squeezes his shoulder. “And do take care of yourself.”

Newt takes that as his cue to leave and he slips away quietly.

Credence is one mystery, but Graves is another. What does a powerful wizard like him want with a volatile obscurial? And he seems off, somehow, despite having only seen him twice. It’s in the scent—the blood to be exact—but Newt can’t explain what it is except that it’s unnatural, which is ironic of him to say.

At his flat, he calls Theseus and asks about Graves, the dark-haired, well-dressed gentleman.

“ _You are unbelievable_ ,” Theseus sighs. “ _Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security at MACUSA, the President’s right-hand man, descendant of the Original Twelve_.”

Newt frowns. “How do you know all that?”

“ _It’s my_ job _, believe it or not; he is my current American counterpart, after all,_ ” Theseus says, “ _But even so, this is common knowledge, you ignorant child_.”

“It isn’t _relevant_  to me, and I know about the Original Twelve,” Newt huffs. “That means it would cause some stirrup if I take him.”

“ _A bit, but they’d get over it. Although I’m not certain if he has an heir to carry on his family’s name. Leave him alone if he doesn’t, will you? At least respect their history_.”

“ _He smells weird_ ,” Newt mutters.

“ _How do you mean?_ ” Theseus asks with scepticism.

“His blood. It’s only a hunch, but something doesn’t add up.”

“ _Are you sure it’s him? There are lots of dark-haired, broody blokes out there_.”

“Well, he has rather magnificent eyebrows and a pretty face.”

“ _Merlin’s beard, I don’t need to hear about your fantasies,_ ” Theseus groans. “ _Anyway, it could be the man so I’ll contact MACUSA and see what’s going on. Thanks, Artemis_.”

“Tell him to stop looking for the obscurial and stay out of my way, if you wouldn’t mind,” then after a beat he adds, “Please.”

“ _Anything for you, little brother_ ,” Theseus drawls sarcastically, then hangs up.

With nothing left to do until morning, Newt decides to spend the rest of the night reading in the suitcase.

And at daybreak, he’s back out the door.

He isn’t surprised when he encounters Graves just shy of lunchtime, or rather catches him following. It figures that any person of a high position has too much free time on their hands to do as they please rather than something of importance. Newt purposely leads him to a secluded area and sure enough, the man attempts to corner him so he plays along out of curiosity. He slouches as his back hits the wall of a warehouse and pretends to look around nervously before settling on Graves.

“Who are you?” Graves outright demands, eyes narrowed in a cold stare.

“That's what I’d like to know,” Newt replies with a slight hysterical note. “You’re being—it’s rude to not introduce yourself first. And follow people around like this.”

Graves' lips curl briefly in a sneer before reining himself. “Apologies,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all much to Newt's amusement. “I am Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security. I was simply concerned about your intentions towards Credence since he is—”

“Oh, you’re a friend of his?” Newt interrupts. “Why didn't you start with that instead of acting like you were going to harm me?”

The interruption and question throws off Graves who is clearly accustomed to being heard and obeyed. There's a subtle tightening of muscle in the man’s jaw—a very nice one at that, Newt thinks—but his expression remains unaffected otherwise.

“You know, I think I recognise you,” Newt smiles slightly. “You were the strange fellow I ran into last week, yes? I had thought you were bothering Credence at the time.”

“Did you now,” Graves says with a sharp smile of his own. “Then I suppose we both had a mutual misunderstanding here, Mr. Vampire.”

Newt blinks, suitably impressed; it seems Graves is more advanced in his magic than he had expected, to be able to see through his anti-glamour. “I suppose, Mr. Graves. Well-acquainted with our kind, are you.” He mumbles the last part, back to acting nervous.

“I've caught a couple rogue ones before as an auror,” the man nods, “but I understand that you generally keep to yourselves in groups. So—” and he steps closer, drawing his wand before pointing _rudely_  in Newt’s face. “What is your purpose for coming here alone?”

“I’m only visiting,” Newt yelps, shrinking back. “Taking in sights and the like. I like travelling alone but it has been a while since I’ve seen New York and Credence is only acting as a city guide of sorts. I mean no harm, honest.”

“You still haven't told me your name yet,” Graves prompts.

“Newton Schmidt. But you can call me Newt,” he sighs, then appears wary. “Are you going to arrest me?”

Graves looks over him carefully with an assessing gaze and while he's distracted, Newt scents him. From this proximity, the strange mismatch of his scent is even more pronounced, like there is a contradiction within his body; but it’s still distinctly human. He doesn't smell of illness or disease either which is even more baffling—

“We don’t have a specific visitor’s pass for your kind, unfortunately,” Graves states as he lowers his wand. “But you seem to be hiding yourself well enough and are far more civilized than others I have met before, so please keep it that way. We don't want any trouble here in the city, and I will not hesitate to kill you if it comes to that.”

Newt lets out an obvious breath of relief, then smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Graves, that's very reasonable of you. I won’t be here for much longer so no need to worry.”

“Still, I'd like to put a tracker on you as a precaution,” Graves says, and it's a demand phrased as a request.

“Oh, I'm afraid that won't work but you’re welcome to try,” Newt says lightly.

Graves raises a sceptical brow but doesn’t say anything. He’ll most likely try when he thinks Newt isn't aware, but no matter how strong the man is, his spells are useless against someone of Newt’s line. Although he wants to warn the man off of his search right this moment, he’ll leave the diplomatic-speaking part to Theseus.

Newt clears his throat. “If that’s all, I’d like to be on my way.”

“Just one last question, if you don’t mind,” Graves starts, then continues when Newt nods. “I was under the impression that your kind are generally active at night.”

Newt holds back a snort. It’s only because it’s easier to isolate and target their victims since they’re more vulnerable during those hours. His kind isn’t hindered by poor night vision like humans are and therefore, picking off food from the streets is simpler to do when there are less people around to make a fuss. But it seems that has sparked myths about how they avoid sunlight because it’s their weakness.

“I’m kind of special,” Newt answers cheekily and flashes his fangs, enjoys the look of frustration that crosses over Graves’ face. “Now, I really must get going. Have a good day, Mr. Graves.”

Newt leaves him behind, ignoring the eyes boring into his back, and heads out onto the populated streets again. Although he had known Graves would come to him eventually, the encounter was rather abrupt and disappointing. Newt wonders if things are not going well for the man, considering the air of restlessness around him that has been present since last night. It’s likely due to Newt himself, and the thought pleases him.

No more than ten minutes into his walk, another presence tags along behind him.

It’s hot dog girl.

Apparently, being acquainted with Credence is drawing more attention to him than he would like. She also has issues with his sudden proximity to Credence but unlike Graves, Newt can tell her worry for the boy is genuine. Newt gives the same excuse and she falls much more easily for his lies, even blushing a bit when he smiles at her. He suggests on a whim that she join them as he’s heading over to meet Credence for lunch which shocks her, but she tentatively accepts.

It's a boring but not unpleasant experience, and Credence warms up to this Tina Goldstein unusually quick for some reason. Credence looks at him with even more trust afterwards so it was a right decision on his part, and Newt knows it’ll be even less work from now on to lure him away from Graves.

Tina starts fidgeting nervously towards the end of their meal as if she suddenly remembers something, and she bids the both of them farewell a little hastily, nearly running off as soon as they step outside the diner. Newt watches her disappear curiously, and when he glances at Credence, the boy looks just as perplexed.

“You know some nice people, Mr. Newt,” Credence says softly as they walk down the streets.

“Not exactly,” Newt hums. “I’ve only just met her properly today. They seem to like following me around, strangely.”

“That’s because you’re a nice person yourself, I think,” Credence smiles slightly, making him look far younger than usual.

Oh, if only he knew. “You can think what you want, I suppose,” Newt shrugs. “By the way, how do you know Mr. Graves?”

Credence looks at him, surprised. “You know Mr. Graves, too?”

“Only met him twice. Remember that first night? That was the first, and I saw him again today, actually. He seemed a tad concerned for you,” Newt says vaguely.

“Ah, well, um...” the boy looks away, then back. “I was—I got lost one night a couple months ago, must’ve fainted or something. Mr. Graves found me that time and he was kind and patient with me even though I was a bit hysterical.”

From what he had seen so far, Newt has a hard time believing Graves as the person Credence is describing.  “Is that so? He didn’t seem it when I saw him.”

“That—” and interestingly, Credence doesn’t deny it. “It must be stress; he told me once his job was a tough one that required much focus. But he’s usually a very kind man, always helping me when I get into trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Um, I would occasionally wake somewhere different from the last place I remember and Mr. Graves teased that I had terrible sleeping habits, but it was—”

“Frightening,” Newt finishes.

“To say the least,” Credence mutters.

Newt nods. “Understandable. Well, Mr. Graves certainly does sound like a nice man. And you’re saying he’s not so much, recently.”

“He—he still is,” the boy insists, face stubborn. “He still looks out for me, my sisters as well.”

They near the orphanage, and Newt notes that Credence has been steadily tensing up the closer they get. It’s to the point that the same energy which had spiked in him before—that had not shown since—slowly seeps out. Credence himself seems unaware just like the last time, and new suspicions start forming in Newt’s mind.

“Are you alright, Credence?” Newt asks.

The boy startles and the energy flares for a second before disappearing completely as Credence visibly deflates. “I’m only tired, Mr. Newt.”

“A young lad like you should be more energetic,” Newt teases, drawing a reluctant smile from the young man.

“Right,” Credence sighs. “Well, thank you for lunch today.”

“It’s the least I can do for dragging you around the city.”

Credence smiles wider and waves. “Goodbye, Mr. Newt.”

 

 

 

As soon as the door closes behind him, Newt sighs. He removes his coat and scarf, waves them away to hang on the coat rack. He goes to the kitchen first and starts a pot of water for tea before sitting down at the dining table.

This whole situation is getting too complicated for his liking, and he’s having to invest so much time and energy into things he couldn’t care less about. What he had imagined when first coming here was that he would spot the child losing control of their magic, coax them into his suitcase, and be out of the country within the week. But here he is, two weeks later, questioning whether he is even searching for the right clues.

Credence's little story raises more questions than it does answer them. The boy exhibits some qualities of an obscurial yet he’s far above the average age range of such creatures. Is he one? Could he be of a similar breed or simply a late-blooming squib? All cases are unheard of but he can’t dismiss any possibility at this point.

And what is Graves’ true intention? Had he started off being genuinely nice but ultimately considered the boy a tool to get what he wanted? What is his weird scent?

Newt snarls in frustration. There's something missing, something that would tie all these pieces together and paint the full picture. But it’s the one thing Newt can’t find right now.

He stands, paces the small kitchen, and decides to have a blood bag instead of tea. Not that he's particularly hungry, but this hunt isn't panning out and there is no good outlet for these pent-up urges so he's attempting to distract it by fulfilling other needs. He looks out the window as he drinks, and tonight's full moon glows brightly in the clear sky. Seeing its beauty relaxes him slightly and gives him momentary peace.

The streets, on the other hand, are a gloomy sight to behold—wait, is that...

Newt opens the window and climbs through it while keeping his eyes on what he just saw. He jumps down silently, watches as it stumbles along towards him through the shadows, not having noticed his presence yet. When it finally steps into the moonlight, Newt stares.

It’s a magnificent beast, easily as tall as the average man and the largest wolf Newt has ever seen. Its thick, black fur makes it a rarity of its species and if it weren’t matted with dirt and blood, it would surely be a beautiful coat. Its eyes are a glowing yellow when they turn to him, and Newt doesn't get to admire them for long before the wolf bares its teeth in a snarl. It doesn't move beyond that, however, and he notices that it holds itself stiff, likely from pain. The paws are mangled, fur and skin scraped away revealing muscle underneath, and a thick metal collar chokes most of the sounds coming from its throat. It trembles harder the longer it stands there, and Newt knows the wolf will collapse soon.

Newt crouches where he stands and beckons it over. “Hello, there. Where did you come from? Someone tried to domesticate you, didn’t they.”

The wolf continues to make pathetic noises and it stumbles a few steps when it tries to retreat, finally landing on its haunches. It can't do anything as Newt crawls towards it with a gleeful expression, but he really can't help it. It’s a good-looking specimen and Newt is weak to them, has to have it since the previous owner clearly didn't know how to care for it.

“I’ve got a nice place where you can heal and rest up, little wolf,” Newt says soothingly. “You must be tired and hungry, hm? Food and sleep, how does that sound?”

He’s close now, and he looks into those wary, pained eyes. Just a little more—

“Step away from that wolf, Mr. Schmidt.”

Newt closes his eyes, reminds himself that he shouldn’t kill him. He then stands and dusts himself off, turns around to face the figure pointing a wand at him for the second time today.

“Good evening, Mr. Graves.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This took me a while to get out as I was occupied with the exam which I finally finished!! Thank you for waiting~
> 
> Warning for this chapter! Newt is very much Not Human and it explicitly shows in this. This story has been tagged as 'dark Newt' and will not contain any miraculous conversion to humanity at any point.
> 
> That being said, enjoy!

Newt hears the clicking of claws on pavement and shuffling of fur, sees Graves glance down to what’s behind him.

“I will not ask a second time,” the man says calmly, then to the wolf, “Come here.”

The wolf lets out a whine and when it makes no move to obey, Graves frowns disapprovingly. With his unoccupied hand, he extends it as if to grab something and the sound of weight being dragged makes Newt look over his shoulder. The beast is being pulled forward by an invisible force against its will, and he’d be impressed by the display of wandless magic except...

“Excuse me,” Newt says and raises his own to stop the movement. He meets Graves’ shocked gaze and smiles crookedly, drops all pretense of meekness. “I don’t think that one belongs to you anymore.”

“This isn't any of your business,” Graves says, recovering quickly.

“It is if I want it to be,” Newt replies. “And see, I found what you were foolish enough to lose, so it’s mine now.”

The man's eyes narrow in anger and he snarls, “That isn't how belongings work, Mr. Schmidt. Get out of my way.”

Newt, of course, doesn't. “You’re greedy, you know that?”

“You’re one to talk, you little thief.”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

Graves shoots a spell at him without warning but Newt forms a shield, having expected it. He also blocks the next one, and the next, and Graves appears grudgingly impressed.

“A proficient magic-user,” he remarks. “You’re from an old bloodline.”

Newt just shrugs, but wonders how much the man knows about their kind. Not many people recognise the names of Old Bloods nowadays and even though Theseus works openly with the humans, most think of him as little more than a friendly vampire who proved himself useful during the war. This man in front of him seems to have a vested interest in knowing these things.

There’s an impact from behind him which he assumes is the wolf finally collapsing.

On a hunch, Newt asks, “The wolf isn't just a wolf, is it.”

He watches a myriad of expressions flicker across Graves' face, from frustration to anger, a hint of disappointment, ultimately settling on resigned annoyance. To his credit, Graves realises there is no point in lying to him.

“Why did you have to come and meddle now, of all times,” Graves sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. He then gives Newt a thoughtful look, glances briefly behind him. “If I give him to you, will you please leave?”

Newt narrows his eyes. “I'm not some dog that you can throw a bone at to distract, Mr. Graves. In fact, I'm here on another business which _you_  are interfering with and I had been planning on taking him anyway, you poor excuse of an owner.” He turns his head, finds the wolf on its side, watching them tiredly. “Isn’t that right?”

The wolf seems sentient enough that it understands him and snorts in response, which adds to Newt’s suspicions about this one.

“See, he agrees,” Newt tells Graves, but the man seems unimpressed.

“Mr. Schmidt—if that is even your true name,” Graves says, tone especially long-suffering, “how can we come to a suitable compromise for both parties without killing each other?”

“That’s a wonderful thought, but seeing as we’re both after the same thing, I don’t think that’s possible,” Newt answers. “I will have what I want, Mr. Graves, whether you like it or not, and the only one who will be killed here is you if you continue to be in my way.”

Graves barks a laugh. “I suppose we will have to see about that.” He readies his wand again for combat. “Such a shame; I might have liked you if you weren’t such a nuisance.”

“How flattering,” Newt smiles, all teeth and fangs.

Too focused on keeping an eye on the other’s move, they don’t realise until a heavy weight lands on Newt, knocking him forwards as he hears Graves let out a shocked noise. There is the sound of a body hitting the ground followed by swift running, and Newt gets up just in time to see Graves down on his back groaning and the wolf’s tail disappearing around the corner.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Newt mutters as he gives chase, not minding that he kicks Graves on the way. “Not sorry,” he tosses back.

For one that is currently suffering from open wounds, the wolf is surprisingly agile as it runs between the buildings, twisting and turning like it knows the streets. If it wasn't hampered by injuries and exhaustion, Newt might have had to run properly to shorten the distance between them but as it is, it takes little time to corner the beast at a dead end. It has its back up as it faces Newt, teeth bared and clenched around a wand—stolen from Graves as it tackled him earlier, Newt guesses.

“My offer still stands, you know,” Newt says, hands loose at his sides for now. “It's a good one, isn’t it? And I will guarantee protection from that man; I don’t like that he hurt you.”

The wolf doesn’t move for the next few minutes, staring at Newt and growling. Newt waits, knowing that this kind of thing required patience and really, it doesn’t have much of a choice at this point. He notices the moment the tension starts to drain out of the wolf, tail and ears drooping first follows by the rest of its body. It goes slack from the back legs forward though it still stubbornly holds onto the wand. Without the menacing posture, it looks like a dog with a bone, ironically.

“There you go,” Newt murmurs and walks over slowly.

When he reaches it, the wolf hangs its head as if defeated but it’ll see soon enough that it hasn't lost to anything. Newt crouches, picks up the injured creature and hefts it over his shoulder. He ignores the shocked whine and paws scrabbling at his back and stomach, tucking his other arm under its hind legs like holding a baby. Due to its size, Newt takes care not to let the tail drag along the ground as he walks.

“Oh hush, we’ll be home soon,” he says because the wolf won’t stop rumbling low in its throat.

Eventually, the wolf slumps and it’s then Newt realises that for such a large thing, it doesn’t weigh much. He picks up his pace and keeps on guard, but Graves doesn’t show up to interrupt him until he’s back in his flat. Newt goes straight into the suitcase at which point the wolf struggles again because of the abrupt change in environment so he lets it go. He floats it over to the expanded cot while he heads towards the cabinets to grab some salve and bandages.

“You just make yourself comfortable, little wolf; I’ll have you better in no time.” Newt hums, a bit happy to have another addition to his case even though it’s not the one he wants. “Been a while since I’ve had a normal one,” he mumbles to himself.

He turns around to see the wolf gazing warily from the cot, not fully lying down even though its legs are shaking. Sighing, Newt makes his way over with his hands full.

“Sit down or I’ll make you,” and he makes the threat loud and clear.

After hesitating briefly, the wolf lowers itself completely and Newt pats its head.

“Good boy.”

A poor attempt at a growl is easily ignored and Newt flicks an ear. It makes the wolf flinch in surprise and stare in shock, making him laugh.

“Now, let’s start by getting that collar off you.”

Strangely, it’s warded and spelled like it’s protecting the Queen’s palace and Newt is even more curious as to why Graves had to go this far. Just in case, he makes the wolf drink some numbing potion first which takes another five minutes or so to since asking politely doesn't work.

The first touch of foreign magic to the collar shocks the both of them and a surge of power hurts the wolf, going by its choked-off yelp; it would have been worse without the potion and he says as much while the beast glares up at him. Newt makes soothing noises but doesn’t let it turn away from him and he tries again with less force and more intricacy. He's basically threading a string of his magic through the eye of hundreds of needle-like structures in order to pull them apart at the seams in one go and it takes the better part of an hour to finish that part. The wolf occasionally whimpers when it particularly stings due to sparks of conflicting spells but doesn't struggle otherwise.

Once the defensive mechanisms are gone, the collar vanishes with a snap of his fingers and Newt frowns at the deep indentation left in its neck as the wolf gasps in relief. He puts a bowl of water in front of it and after hacking a couple times, the wolf looks down, then up at Newt.

He sighs. “It’s _water_ , honest. Do you have to be so sceptical when I'm putting in all this effort to help you?”

The wolf appears unimpressed and it’s so very human of it that Newt snorts in amusement.

“Mr. Graves must have rubbed off on you,” he thinks aloud, to which the wolf narrows its eyes further. “Come on, little wolf, you must be thirsty.”

Eventually, it relents and starts drinking, and the motions are awkward at first like it isn't accustomed to its own movements. But it picks up the idea quickly and it's soon gulping down mouthfuls of water to quench its parched throat, and all too soon the water is gone. It looks up at him imploringly for more.

“After I treat your wounds,” Newt says in response and clears the bowl. “On your side.”

He doesn't wait, just rolls the wolf onto its side and it goes reluctantly, finally accepting that it needs help. He tips the jaw up and away to expose the throat better and the wolf tenses for a moment before relaxing. The loss of resistance makes the rest of the process easier as Newt mutters healing spells to patch muscle tissues and skin at the neck and feet. He turns the wolf on to its other side to do the same, sees that the rest of the body only has light lacerations and contusions, some which have scarred over already. Afterwards, he gives it a massage to loosen up the leftover tension and watches as the beast melts into a puddle of fur.

Newt doesn’t recall the last time he cared personally for a creature since he mostly uses magic these days, and he forgot how rewarding it is as he watches the wolf grow tame under his own two hands. It remains pliant as he carries it back out into his room to give it a good wash, pulling off clumps of dirt, blood, and fur and cleaning it of accumulated grease from improper hygiene. The wet fur clings to its body, emphasizing its poor state of health.

“Consider yourself fortunate, little wolf; I’m in the mood to spoil you,” he says as pats it dry with a soft towel. “I’ll have you fattened up again soon enough.”

He further proves his words by carrying it to his bed and letting it sink into the soft mattress. The wolf nearly hangs off the bed so Newt has to lengthen it a bit more to accommodate the full stretch of its body. The bowl of water he brings is finished in no time and he denies the wolf another since it wouldn’t do to upset the stomach by suddenly stimulating it too much.

“The quicker you sleep, the quicker you’ll wake and get more. Understand?” Newt scolds when it glares at him.

The wolf huffs in disappointment it seems like, and flops over onto its side. Newt sits down next to it and scratches at its ear, grinning at the way it twitches to shake him off while leaning into the touch simultaneously. The near-luminous eyes that had been dulled by pain and fatigue earlier shines a little brighter, appearing golden in the moonlight.

“How pretty,” Newt observes.

It tries to bite at his hand but it’s too slow, sluggish as sleep starts to take over. A low rumbling vibrates from deep within its chest as it blinks more and more heavily at Newt, until those eyes close one last time. Finally.

The jaw goes slack in sleep and only now is Newt able to take the wand it had held onto stubbornly this whole night. The wand is a handsome thing, dark and smooth with a silver handle to add some elegance to it, befitting of a man like Graves. The silver isn’t pure so it tingles at most when he touches it.

Newt wonders why it stole this from Graves, perhaps as a precaution so that it wouldn’t be hurt again. Whatever the reason, it’s a bargaining chip for Newt to get the man to back off.

For now, he sets the wand on the dresser and picks up his book to read for the next few hours until he has to feed his creatures.

 

 

Newt is currently in the small kitchen, having left the room earlier at the break of dawn to fix himself a cup of tea. He pauses in pouring boiled water into the cup and strains to hear the faint beating of a heart pumping too fast. At first, it's groaning and grumbling, then whining and snapping. But the snapping is the sound of flesh, muscle and tendon tearing, ligaments and bones shifting, accompanied by strangled noises of pain.

There is only one occupant in the room from which the sounds are coming and he can only imagine what is happening. Is the wolf having a nightmare and harming itself? The cries get louder and higher in pitch, grating on his ears and he's about to go back and spell it into deeper sleep when it suddenly stops. All that's left is heavy panting and quiet sobs, distinctly _human_ sounds.

He resumes pouring and steeps the tea to his preferred taste before stirring some milk into it, takes a sip and lets the taste linger on his tongue. Satisfied, he carries it back to his room.

There is a naked man lying curled up and face down in his bed, trembling so hard that he might fall apart at any second. Newt leans against the door post and drinks again, observes for a moment. It’s clear that he's trying very hard not to be heard by suppressing his cries, muscles twitching and fingers grasping weakly at the sheets.

“So, that’s how it is,” Newt sighs, and the man flinches in surprise. “It hurts, doesn't it.”

Newt walks over and he notes the healing mark on the man’s shoulder where he had been deeply bitten among the numerous scars of past days. The bite can't be more than two, three days old and he runs a finger over it, making the man twist away violently. He seizes up immediately, though, and drops helplessly onto his back with a groan.

Newt raises a brow. “Alright, can’t say I expected that.”

It’s Graves—or rather, an unkempt, scrawny version of the man that had been antagonizing him. Long, tangled hair spills around a gaunt and bearded face, and the rest of his body reflects starvation and malnutrition in discoloured skin and prominent bones. The wet eyes that gaze warily up at him are dark brown and haunted, though Newt think he sees a flash of residual gold. And underneath the layers of pain and distress, the man’s natural bloodscent reaches his nose and he smells _right_.

“Are you the real Graves, then?”

‘Graves’ swallows and croaks out, “Who are you? Why did you save me?” instead of answering.

“You aren’t in a position to be asking the questions,” Newt reminds him, leaning over and pressing his unoccupied hand lightly on the heavily-scarred throat.

The man tenses but is unable to defend himself due to his muscles still spasming from the difficult transformation, and he glares defiantly up at Newt.

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” he spits out hoarsely.

Newt clucks his tongue, says, “Why would I do that? I take care of what’s mine, even if you aren’t quite what I expected.” He sits down on the edge of the bed, ignoring the man’s shocked, incredulous expression. “You are Graves, are you not? And some wanker stole your identity.”

“That’s—yes, I—” and then Graves trails off, features slackening in confusion. “Who are you?” he tries again.

“Not too good at listening, little wolf,” Newt says with a frown, watches the rush of anger and fear on the man’s face. “But I'll allow this one; the name’s Newt Scamander.”

“Scamander?” Graves asks, again confused. “Are you related to—”

“Theseus, yes.”

Graves must associate Theseus with some measure of trust and safety because the mention of his brother uncoils some of the tension within him. From the way Theseus talked about him, he hadn’t gotten the impression they were all that close but then again, Newt isn’t very attentive when he talks about work.

Newt slides his hand down from the neck to the centre of Graves’ chest, pushes magic into it and sends cool tendrils throughout the body to soothe aching muscles. Graves gradually relaxes until his limbs are no longer tense and curled about him, and instead lie uselessly on the bed. He releases a slow breath that he had been holding in panic, blinks once, twice.

“Thank you,” he says, glancing at Newt.

After a moment, he pushes himself up and it’s at this point Graves seems to realise his nakedness and quickly snatches the sheets to cover himself. Newt hides a smirk as a flush creeps up Graves’ neck, and lifts his cup to offer him tea. Graves looks at the cup then up at Newt, and it’s rather funny to see how the scepticism manifests similarly on both human and wolf faces even though they’re physically different.

“After all that I’ve done for you, you still doubt,” Newt sighs.

“I hardly know you, Mr. Scamander,” Graves points out, “even if you are related to Theseus. You’re a, a...”

“Vampire, sure, but I have yet to suck you dry which I would have already done so if your recovery wasn’t in my best interest. And I have access to the water and food you most certainly need in order to have any strength to escape, if that is what’s on your mind.”

To his credit, Graves doesn’t react to Newt’s suggestion even though that is most likely what he’s thinking. The man had noticed the wand sitting on the dresser and although he hasn't glanced at it since, the hand closer to it has been twitching. When Newt shifts, he flinches back and inhales sharply, but all Newt does is summon the wand to him. He holds the silver end out to Graves.

“Go on,” Newt prompts when the man doesn’t move, just stares. “Take it.”

Graves reaches out hesitantly and grasps the wand, then swiftly yanks it away to hold it in front of him defensively.

Newt snorts and brings up the cup again. “Feel better, then? Now, drink.”

Though he moves slowly, Graves obeys this time and even then only after he checks for anything suspicious. In his current state, that little bit of magic takes a significant toll causing him to waver, and if not for Newt’s grip on his arm, he might have spilled the tea all over himself. So Newt just takes the cup back and tips the man’s head back with a finger under his chin and trickles the warm liquid into his startled-open mouth. He goes slow enough that Graves doesn’t choke until the last drop is gone, and at the end of it he allows the man to push his hands away. Graves makes a disgusted face while pursing his lips together.

“You Brits and your tea,” he grouses.

Raising a brow, Newt says, “I’ll let that one slide, too, because it seems you aren’t thinking straight, little wolf.” He tosses the empty cup onto the bed. “Surely you know that using magic right now is a reckless thing to do.”

“Stop calling me that,” Graves snaps. “Look—” but he cuts himself off abruptly, grips the sheet over his lap. “Mr. Scamander—”

“I prefer Newt.”

“Alright, Newt, I’d like to borrow some clothes, please, and then we can talk about this—”

“Here’s the thing,” Newt interrupts smoothly. “What you are is a brand new, baby werewolf,”—Graves looks away with furrowed brows and a deep frown at hearing the word—“who clearly has no clue how to adapt to this change and ran away without knowing how to help yourself. I am your saviour and have generously taken you into my home with the intention of getting you better.”

Newt grips the man’s jaw lightly and turns his head back, and Graves immediately tries to get away. He doesn’t let go this time, however, and waits until Graves realises the futility of his attempts. It isn't long before a wave of dizziness from lack of sustenance makes the man slump, a hand hanging onto Newt’s wrist. Still, Graves keeps the wand pointed at him and meets his eyes directly as the weight of his situation starts to set in, and Newt smiles reassuringly.

“You've been bitten by an elder wolf since not many of the younger can do full transformations nowadays, instead becoming some hideous hybrid-like creature,” he continues as if he never stopped. “I assume your imposter had something to do with that and I must say, I'm impressed he convinced one of them to do his bidding.”

Graves closes his eyes, curses the name ‘Grindelwald’.

“That fellow really likes to cause trouble, doesn't he,” Newt muses. “Does he hate you that much?”

When Graves opens his eyes again, they burn with anger and despair. “He said killing me would be a waste, but couldn't afford to keep me as I am. So he took measures that would prevent me from wanting to go back. Among humans, that is.” The muscles in his jaw tighten. “He made me a monster.”

Newt hums and shrugs. “Not quite; it depends on the perspective. From yours, Grindelwald would be the monster, no?”

His response makes Graves blink wide, and his expression shifts as conflicting emotions war on his face before changing to one of contemplation, then settling into resigned uncertainty.

“I don't know,” Graves confesses in a hoarse whisper.

The sheer vulnerability in those three words sends a thrill through Newt, and he suppresses a grin that would probably frighten the man. Even as he releases his grip, already instincts have Graves leaving his throat bared to him in an unconscious acknowledgement of Newt’s authority.

“It’s alright,” Newt says softly in a soothing tone, leaning back. “We have time to figure out what to do and I’ll let Theseus know so he can deal with the official matters.”

“I don’t want others to know about this—”

“Trust me, my brother would know what to do. He’s a monster like us,” Newt says with a harmless grin.

Graves stares for a moment, then looks down at his lap where his hands have twisted up the fabric. “My apologies, I didn’t mean—I see what you’re saying.”

“Anyway,” and he claps the man on the shoulder as he stands, “we’ll start by getting you dressed and fed, then go from there. How does that sound?”

And Newt sees them, the little signs of trust as Graves opens up to him because there is no one else he can rely on while he is weak like this; because Newt is showing kindness in the aftermath of cruelty at the hands of another. It’s in the lowering of his wand, the way he sinks in on himself as what little strength he had drains away with the adrenaline. His heart no longer sounds like it’s trying to beat itself out of his chest.

Graves searches his eyes for something and unlike the cold, detached gaze of the imposter, this look is undeniably soft. It could be that he has no energy to hide himself behind any front, but the mellow brokenness Newt finds is better-suited to the scruffy, worn face. The man nods at last and Newt reminds himself to take it step-by-step, to not reach out right now and pet him for being good.

Werewolves don’t usually pique his interest since he considers them ugly things that are neither proper man nor proper beast, but some have a certain kind of appeal that attracts him which occasionally leads to situations like this. He can’t say for sure how long it will be before he gets bored, but he hopes it will be some years at least. And it will definitely help that he caught Graves in his infant stage, making him highly teachable.

Perhaps New York isn’t such a bad place, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through! I also realise the plot ends up being more complicated than I ever wanted and make it difficult for myself to proceed, lol. But somehow this chapter made it. Funny thing, I used to wonder how there were some authors who could write thousands of words but not actually progress with the story and then I noticed that's exactly what happened with this chapter lol.
> 
> Anyways, all that's left is Credence and Grindelwald to tie up and then it'll be done.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Despite his best efforts, Graves starts nodding off after his first meal in a long time. Newt had had to watch so he wouldn't make himself sick in his haste to eat, to which the man had objections.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Newt, but I am not a child in need of a guardian,” he had said with a displeased frown after the third time Newt told him to slow down.

Newt hadn’t even bothered to dignify that with a response, only sipped his freshly brewed tea.

And now, sitting in the kitchen with warm porridge in his stomach and having been sufficiently hydrated, Graves' body demands further rest since his first ever shift from wolf to human had taken strength that he didn’t have. But Newt is quickly learning that there is a stubbornness to this man that does anything but _actually help him_ because even as he's slurring his words and closing his eyes longer than keeping them open, Graves shakes off Newt’s hands that try to pull him up from the chair.

“You put something in the porridge,” Graves accuses, which sounds more like “Youbudsmthnginthepordge.”

“Yes, yes,” Newt sighs as he hoists him up. “By all means, blame me for your inability to rest when you need it, you idiotic man.”

And Merlin, Graves still protests and it’s easier to carry him with an arm under his knees and back respectively because otherwise the man would dig in his heels out of refusal. Newt takes him back to bed and tucks him in, eyes Graves threateningly when he tries to move.

“I have a name, you know,” he mumbles, glare ruined by eyes slipping closed. “You haven’t used it once. Keep calling me a wolf.”

Of course, Newt knows this which is deliberate on his part. He doesn't want to call him Graves since he already associates it with a certain version of him and Newt prefers to have a personal name for his creatures. He has yet to decide for Graves.

“Because you are one,” Newt replies carelessly.

“ _No_ , I’m not,” comes the suddenly vehement reply, Graves' eyes snapping open with surprising clarity. “I’m Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security—” he pauses, eyebrows scrunching, “I mean, I was. Before he...”

Oh dear god, Newt thinks as he watches distress wash over Graves; he isn’t really equipped to deal with the emotional aspects of having an identity crisis for humans.

“Even if they don't know that I'm here, I'm still the real—”

“Percival,” Newt cuts him off before he can work himself up out of sleeping, drawing Graves’ unseeing gaze towards him. “That’s who you are, yes.”

Perhaps the sound of his name reassures him, because Graves nods, swallows, and his breathing evens out as he slips into unconsciousness. Chances are that he will not remember this when he wakes since Newt doubts Graves had been completely aware of himself in this state, but he’ll have to tread carefully from now on.

Before leaving, he spells him into a deeper sleep lest he wake prior to Newt’s return. Newt then changes his clothes, sets his hair, and puts on the grey coat for a change. The important matter of the obscurial still hasn’t been solved and as he steps outside, Newt wonders if he should stay for another week at most and then count this one as lost. There will always be another as long as prejudice persists in society, so he has plenty of other opportunities. While mankind has come a long way in changing themselves, Newt predicts that some things will remain the same.

But...

He can’t shake off his suspicion about Credence. If the boy is indeed an obscurial, he would be the rarest of the rare, having far surpassed the average life-expectancy of such creatures. Newt has yet to find anything that comes close to the kind of erratic magic that Credence emits, and that’s saying a lot considering he has scoured the city twice now.

The afternoon is spent with the intention of making sure that Grindy-fellow won’t make a stupid move before he’s satisfied with the situation instead of conducting another search. Newt is certain that the real Percival Graves wasn’t supposed to escape and be discovered, so he reckons that the events of last night may have been a large setback for the man. He snorts as he remembers the wizard’s attempt to distract Newt, possibly assuming that he would be a disinterested third-party. Under different circumstances, if this trip’s purpose had been something mundane like sightseeing, it would have been true.

Several hours of wandering the city yields nothing, and Newt’s almost disappointed that tonight’s trip ended up being remarkably uneventful. Credence had been safely tucked in bed, if a little downtrodden, when Newt had passed by the orphanage earlier and Grindle-something doesn’t seem to have made contact with the boy judging by the lack of his scent or magic in the vicinity.

Tomorrow, he will continue with observing and then decide what to do the following morning. The unexpected acquisition of an infant werewolf requires some adjustment to his original plans but he can’t say he truly minds. If the hunt for the obscurial falls through, at least this trip won’t have been a complete waste.

The first thing he does when back in his flat is call Theseus.

“ _Twice in a week? Your trip must be quite the life-altering experience_ ,” Theseus laughs.

“Don’t be a sod, Theseus,” Newt says. “May I speak with the children?”

And then Newt’s smiling as he hears them scrabbling in the background for the phone but Lily, being the oldest, speaks first. He can tell she is this close to complaining about her siblings and though her tone is obviously petulant, he feels merciful enough and reassures her of his imminent return. The mention of a reward for being good is enough to lighten her mood and then she passes the phone to the others.

One of them starts crying when she hears his voice and Newt lets her while moving around the kitchen to fix a late dinner for Percival. He murmurs softly words of comfort and promises, tells her that Papa will be back soon and give her lots of hugs. Jubilee calms down eventually and wheedles an agreement out of him to buy her treats.

His twin boys, Otis and Orion, put on brave fronts but Newt still hears the waver in their voices. He commends them for being strong and courageous, for protecting their sisters and supporting their uncle. He asks them what they want and adds toys to his mental list of souvenirs.

“ _Did you catch the obs—obscue—obsi-cat, Papa?_ ” Jubilee questions before he hangs up. “ _Uncle Theese says you need lots of help_.”

Theseus cackles in the background.

“It’s an obscurial, sweetie,” Newt says gently, waits for her to repeat it back to him. “That’s right, and you know better than to listen to Uncle Theese when he says something stupid because he’s a filthy liar.”

A shriek pierces his eardrum like a physical thing, followed by giggling.

“ _I resent that you’re trying to turn my niece against me,_ ” Theseus sighs while continuing whatever he's doing to make his daughter laugh.

“Then stop trying to make me seem incompetent at every opportunity,” Newt retorts, but smiles because everyone's doing well. “By the way, I think I found the real Percival Graves. Or his twin.”

At this point, no one is even listening anymore so Newt hangs up and proceeds to the kitchen to make a late dinner for Graves—or is it Percival now? He starts with dicing onions and carrots while heating up a pot of chicken stock for a soup that will be good for sensitive stomachs. Once those are boiling altogether, he spells a wooden spoon to keep stirring and goes to feed his creatures.

They're especially active today, and it's some time later that he finishes playing with everyone who craved attention. Pickett chooses to stubbornly stay in his vest pocket and so Newt just climbs out of the case with him.

Percival is still quietly asleep like a baby, barely even snoring. Sitting next to the man, he sees that the smoothed out features, relaxed and peaceful, make him appear a good five years younger at least. Newt thinks he can do with a cuter name, but Percival is in a delicate state so he will have to compromise for now. Although...

“How do you like ‘Percy’?” he asks a few minutes later as soon as Percival opens his eyes.

Dark eyelashes flutter in disoriented blinks and Newt wonders how the same eyes can be utterly cold in one version of this man, but carrying soft innocence in another. There is something miraculously untainted about them even full of suffering and trauma as they are, a rare sight in his world.

“Who...?”

“It suits you rather well, I must say,” Newt muses. “Alright, Percy it is.”

Percy rubs his eyes, frowning and visibly processing what is going on, but he isn't awake enough to give a proper response yet. But Newt’s hand as it nears him causes him to curl away slightly which has happened every time Newt has done so. It's an instinctive reaction that speaks of association with pain, so he closes the rest of the distance and brushes the backs of his fingers lightly along Percy’s cheek, runs them over his head and scratches gently at the scalp. The gestures calm the man and it's an easy slide to wakefulness from there.

Newt nearly bursts into a grin when bewilderment bleeds into that absent, round gaze and with some reluctance, he draws back. “Hello.”

“What was that?” Percy asks slowly, pushing himself up to sit. “What are you doing?”

When Newt doesn’t answer, only smiles, Percy’s face goes blank in an effort to appear calm and he shifts over to put some space between them. Newt follows, and the man stumbles out of bed as fear starts to weakly emanate from his blood. He scrambles backwards and eventually hits the wall, then he seems to remember his wand, tries to summon it. But Newt is on him by the time the wand is in his hand and he grips him by the wrist and presses it to the wall next to Percy’s head. The smell of fear and beating of his heart escalate and if this were any other of his victims, Newt would be enjoying the effect he has on them before feasting on their neck; however...

“It’s alright, Percy,” Newt murmurs, cupping his neck with the other hand and curling around the nape. “I didn’t mean to frighten you; I was only checking how you were doing.”

Percy grabs his shirt collar and pulls on it weakly, but the trembling fist doesn’t do much else. The poor thing isn’t breathing properly and Newt frowns, gives his nape a firm squeeze which causes him to gasp. As Percy inhales deeply and lets it out in a shudder, Newt massages the soft flesh, strokes up and down the column and feels the tension slowly ease from him.

“There you go, just breathe.”

The hand in his own eventually stops shaking and it takes Newt a second to realise that it’s trying to pull out of his grip. Newt releases it and at the same time, Percy’s other hand pushes at his chest unsuccessfully. Upon noticing the futility of physically moving him, Percy strangles out a cry of frustration and glares up at Newt, eyes wet with angry tears, presumably.

“What do you _want_ with me,” he starts with a growl but ends on a near-whimper. “Aren’t I just food to you?”

Newt tsks. “Didn’t I tell you already? I’m taking care of you.”

“Why? We only met yesterday, it doesn't make sense,” the man now mumbles to himself, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re a predator; there is no plausible reason for you to have chased me if you weren't going to—you could’ve just—”

And he seems to run of steam, both physically and mentally because he stops abruptly and starts sliding down the wall. Newt catches him and draws him into his arms to which Percy struggles half-heartedly. Either he lost his memory of last night or the wolf is too separate an entity from Percy's human that it can't understand human words yet. Whatever the case, Newt thinks it wise to not mention anything and let the man figure it out on his own; that way, it'll be less work for Newt to try and constantly convince him of his intentions.

While he carries a protesting Percy—who has no choice but to hold onto him—to the bathroom, he tries to recall if his previous charges had been this resistant.

Percy objects to being washed.

“Have you no sense of decency?” Percy exclaims. “And I’m no longer incapacitated—you have my gratitude for that, by the way—so I can bathe myself just fine.”

“Whether that is true or not, the point is that you do not need to,” Newt huffs. “There is nothing wrong with your body if that's what you're worried about.”

In the end, he has to keep his hands off but doesn’t leave the room about which they both have grievances: Percy with his privacy and Newt his own lack of participation.

“You should be grateful I’m in a generous mood, Percy,” Newt informs him, watching from his seat on the toilet.

“It’s Percival,” comes the immediate retort. “And this is normal; you trying to get your hands on me at every opportunity is _not_.”

Newt frowns. “Don’t be crude.”

Percy also has issues with being shaved.

“Trust me, I have far better control over my motor skills than you do at the moment,” Newt says.

“You’re mad if you think I'll allow you to bring that blade anywhere near me, you stupid vampire,” Percy bites out, then stiffens, eyes growing wide.

Sighing, Newt crouches next to the tub and notices the deliberate way Percy doesn’t move. “I’m not offended, if that’s what worries you.”

“I wasn’t,” Percy mutters, not looking at him.

But he’s obedient when Newt turns his head and rubs cream into his facial hair. He stays still with his eyes closed and brows furrowed, shivers at the first glide of the razor down his cheek.

No one speaks and the sound of Percy’s breathing almost echoes against the tiles along with the brush of sharp metal against skin, and the occasional splash of water when Newt dips it into the tub to clean it is too loud in his ears. Despite that, Newt’s attention is on the dark, quivering lashes, firmly pressed lips turning white, the drops of water sliding down shaved skin and dripping off the chin. The hard but evenly thumping heart of the only living being in the enclosed space.

It’s less than five minutes to remove all of the beard and Percy exhales shakily when finally let go. Newt smiles, then grins wider at the uncertain look he receives.

“You really are very pretty,” he says and runs a finger down the newly smooth, soft flesh. “Just my type.”

“What—” Percy splutters, backing away.

“Tall—kind of—dark, and handsome. Has no one told you that? Surely you must know.”

Percy does an excellent imitation of a fish, if fishes could blush, and he forgets about his own sense of modesty as Newt pulls him up to stand and drains the tub before spraying the remaining soap and hairs off of the man. Unfortunately, he soon comes back to his senses and snatches the towel rudely from Newt’s hands to dry himself, then marches out of the bathroom.

Newt sighs again, following sedately. It’s... different, to say the least, perhaps due to the werewolf's infancy. His personal policy regarding mortals are either to kill, drain, or ignore (minimal interaction if he can't) which is the complete opposite of how he treats his creatures and here he has landed himself with something that is more of one than the preferred other. Volatile emotions, vocally rebellious, psychologically complicated...

In his bedroom, he finds Percy standing in the middle looking like a lost boy with his head bowed and gripping the towel around his waist with one hand, the wand he has not let go of once in the other. Waterdrops fall from the damp locks, hitting the floor with a steady _plip plip plip_ , and the eyes that turn towards him are voids.

“May I have some clothes?” the man says quietly. “Please.”

Newt spells another outfit to fit and doesn’t offer to dress him. Percy puts on each article of clothing mechanically and afterwards, he stays just as he was, looking as lost as before. The sight is more than a little pitiful. If Newt had to guess, the idea of being touched without experiencing any sort of pain is frightening and confusing for the man and his mind isn't able to process this without being overwhelmed. He had used specifically ‘predator’ and ‘vampire’ to possibly establish how they relate to one another because apparently being nice and being a vampire are mutually exclusive concepts.

“Percy,” Newt calls and he doesn’t respond.

He walks over and floats towards himself the towel that dropped on the floor earlier, and dries it with a flick of his finger. He then takes it and wraps it around Percy’s head, gathering all the hair to absorb moisture from them. After he rubs the towel gently all over, Newt summons a brush from the dresser and works through all the tangles. The hair falls to just above his shoulders.

Percy remains quiet as he’s led out of the room with Newt’s hand at his back until he raises his head unconsciously and sniffs the air. Some awareness returns to his eyes when he glances at Newt disbelievingly, even more so when they enter the kitchen and he sees the pot of soup on the stove. Newt guides him to sit at the small dining table first then moves away to pour the soup into a bowl, brings it to Percy along with a spoon.

“Did you make this?” Percy croaks out, stares down at the steaming bowl.

“I know how to cook without poisoning anyone, if that's what you mean,” Newt jokes. “Eat up, it’ll be easy on your stomach.”

That makes Percy look up with an unreadable expression, but he mutters a quiet ‘thanks’ and eats tentatively the first spoonful. He pauses, glances at Newt again, then resumes eating. Loose strands start to fall in his face and so Newt moves behind him, transfigures a summoned cutlery into a band and sweeps the hair back into a ponytail like he’s used to doing for his girls. Percy has stopped again, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth, and Newt leans over his shoulder, takes his hand and lifts it the rest of the way. With his other hand, he strokes Percy’s throat to encourage swallowing but it seems to have the opposite effect for some reason and the man chokes instead, and Newt’s having to pat him on the back as he coughs. After a glass of water, his breathing steadies.

Percy turns around and glares up at him. “Do you _mind_?”

“Excuse me?” Newt frowns.

“There’s a thing called 'personal space' and I’d like for you to respect that boundary.”

That makes Newt snort. “That isn’t how it works here. You’re under my care for the time being and seeing as you can’t even eat a simple bowl of soup without my help—”

“That’s not—” Percy cuts in. “That’s because you—” then flushes in anger or embarrassment. Or both.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Percy.”

The man turns away and stands abruptly to stomp out of the kitchen and Newt presses his lips together unhappily, is more than a little perplexed by this inconsistent behaviour. It’s like his usual patience when it comes to soothing frightened creatures has fled from him, leaving him annoyed and frustrated, so he decides to leave Percy to his tantrum. But then he’s about to clear the unfinished soup and he grits his teeth, thinking that the stupid wolf must still be hungry.

He takes a moment to calm himself. He’s no ill-tempered, ill-mannered fool; he’s a good owner who is kind and fair to all those in his custody and this is no different from any other time. He puts the soup back into the pot to reheat it before going in search of his wolf.

Percy is just around the corner at the entrance of his flat, crouched in front of the door on the balls of his bare feet with a white-knuckled grip on the handle. His shoulders are tensed high around his ears, back curved and head bowed.

A brow rises at the sight. “What are you doing?”

The man hunches further if that’s even possible and such misery radiates from him in waves that Newt feels a bit forgiving. He didn’t mean to make him feel scolded, really, and in two strides, he’s right behind the curled form. Newt coaxes the hand into releasing its death grip on the doorknob then after brief contemplation, bends down and lifts the whole miserable bundle into his arms. Despite the noise of protest, Percy curls into him and holds his wand close to his own chest. Newt doesn’t ask why he looks like he’s about to cry.

“Come on, at least finish eating and then I’ll leave you alone for the night, okay?” Newt offers as he walks them back to the kitchen.

The second time the bowl is placed in front of him, Percy eats the whole thing without fuss—without much of anything, like when he had dressed himself earlier. He sits there after he’s done, hands restless, moving from pinching at the fabric of his pants to rubbing over his chin, even pulling at his hair at some point. Newt cleans up the table and lets him be.

“Why do you call me ‘Percy’?” he asks suddenly as Newt is washing the dishes.

Newt looks over his shoulder to meet narrowed, curious eyes and shoots him a smile before turning back to his task. “Consider it a nickname of sorts. Besides, mine isn’t my full name either, so it’s fair, no?”

“We’re practically strangers yet you already shortened my name of your own accord,” is the complaint he hears. “What’s your name, then?”

Newt pauses. “It’s Newton.”

To his surprise, Percy snorts and he turns around again to see the man trying to hide a smile by covering his mouth, but his eyes are bright with amusement.

“You dare laugh at my name, little wolf?” he says lightly, fully facing his wolf now and crossing his arms.

The smile drops immediately and Percy looks torn between apprehension and annoyance. Newt inwardly sighs because that hadn’t been his intention, and he suspects it will be a good while until Percy will be trusting of him, longer than he initially expected.

He nods his head towards the doorway. “You can go do whatever you want now; I’ll see you in the morning.”

Percy’s brows furrow deeply, and though he’s still cautious, he meets Newt’s gaze steadily. “I’d like to ask a question, if that’s alright.”

Damn it, Newt thinks tiredly. “Fine.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” the man starts quietly. “I mean, I know I’ve been turned into a werewolf, but I’m human right now. Yet...” he takes a breath and momentarily gets lost in his thoughts. “Sometimes I’m thinking, behaving as I should, and at other times I’m not. I can’t. I just _react_.

“You saw me by the door; I was going to leave this place,” and Percy glances away nervously then back, but Newt only nods in acknowledgement—it had been rather obvious. “But then it occurred to me that _he_ was still out there and all of a sudden I was too afraid to move, knowing that I might not be safe going back out there.” He curses. “My own body wouldn’t listen to my own head,” the man snarls, suddenly furious. “I was paralysed by fear like some child who has nightmares about a boogeyman and—z

And Newt is completely out of his depth again because he hasn’t miraculously become a psychiatric doctor since the last time Percy was having emotional problems and when he asks what’s happening to him, Newt resists the urge to knock him out with a spell.

“Look, first of all, you aren’t completely human anymore,” Newt starts cautiously, “which you haven’t quite accepted yet.”

“Processing that you’ve become a completely different species doesn’t exactly happen overnight,” Percy argues.

“Right, yes,” Newt concedes. “Anyway, I think probably it’s that you’re resisting the wolf part of you hence the conflict between thoughts and instincts that you’re experiencing. You just need embrace it.”

“Of course, let me do that right now, then,” Percy remarks sarcastically.

Merlin, and to think this man was clinging to him adorably a mere half-hour ago. But after talking about this, it makes sense. Percy’s wolf associates Newt with safety because he saved him from Grungewall who hurt the animal deeply but Percy the human, as far as he’s concerned, considers him a stranger at best, a potential danger at worst. And the two are not quite one-in-the-same yet.

“I can help you,” Newt says calmly.

“How?” and goodness, there is so much doubt packed in that single word, it’s actually hilarious.

Newt carefully schools his features and walks over to Percy whose eyes widen nervously again. “Oh, no need for that,” he almost coos and runs the back of his hand over Percy’s cheek.

His wolf unconsciously leans into it for a brief moment, then freezes up before turning away.

“You could say that I’m an expert on these kind of things,” he continues. “I’ll show you what I mean tomorrow. Now, are we done here?”

Percy clears his throat, gaze off to the side. “Yes, for now. Thank you.”

Leaning over the man, Newt cups his face and lifts it towards him. When Percy’s hand shoots up to grab his wrist, startled, he hushes him while stroking softly the flesh under his thumbs. Words and mind games have never been his forte, but he’s confident with his touches. If he can get his hands physically on something, it’s usually guaranteed that it will stay.

“No need to worry, little wolf,” he reassures. “I’ve got you,” and with one last caress to the nape, he steps away and leaves the kitchen.

He notes that fear no longer taints Percy’s blood and smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, close to the end, folks! Thank you again and again to you who gave this weird-ass story a shot. I'm pleasantly surprised by the positive feedback it got, truly. If it turns out the way I planned it (lol), this will be followed by a series of timestamp snapshots from various perspectives.
> 
> (But like, I also have another thing I want to write omg)
> 
> Enjoy!

The day after, everything goes downhill, so to speak.

There are two things in Newt’s unremarkable, immortal life that he takes pride in: his suitcase and children. He isn’t normally one for showing off like the others and is more than happy to keep his treasures to himself, but on the occasion that someone happens to be introduced to one or the other, the response is generally positive.

Percy is not of the general opinion, it seems.

The morning had started with his wolf making a dent in one of the walls with an unstable spell because he woke up to Newt sitting next to him on the bed. He had been an arm’s length away yet apparently, any form of life other than himself in the same sleeping area is unthinkable to the man.

“You don’t even breathe and it’s disturbing,” Percy had raged.

Must've not had many bedfellows, then, if any.

It had been followed by a relatively quiet breakfast—well, until he made the mistake of joining Percy with his own source of supplement to get him used to Newt’s respiration-less presence. Percy’s eyes had immediately been drawn to the blood bag and he went a little green after a couple sniffs. The combination of his enhanced sense of smell as well as delicate human sensibilities had made him nauseous and afterwards, no matter that Newt put it away and tried to convince him, Percy wouldn’t eat.

So, Newt had decided to distract him and bring the wolf down into his suitcase as he mentioned last night.

Percy reluctantly follows him with a hand over his nose as he makes his feeding round and Newt does this all by hand today, admittedly wanting to show that he is invested personally in the care of his creatures. He points to and explains the various habitats and its inhabitants, the ones who aren’t shy coming over to greet them. By the end, Dougal is hanging off his back, an occamy is around his neck, and the diricawls are hopping along with them as they head back towards the workshop.

He expects the wonder, awe, appreciation—something along those lines—but even without looking, Percy doesn’t seem happy if his scent is any indication. Newt glances over to find anger and distress on the man’s face and he frowns in turn. He’s about say something, to ask what’s the matter but he’s beaten to it.

“This is what you meant by being an expert, that you’re some kind of beast-wrangler,” Percy says, voice low and cold. “You see me as a fucking _animal_.”

Newt bites back the first thing that comes to mind, somehow feeling that it’s not the right response. “I meant that I can help you find contentment with your new physiology.”

Percy isn’t following anymore so Newt has to stop and turn around to face him. He’s still angry, but now there’s also a thoughtfulness to the look.

“You haven’t the first clue how to treat a person, do you.”

Newt blinks once. “Pardon?”

“You do realise that we've been conversing this whole time?” Percy grits through his teeth. “One intelligent being to another.”

“Of course—”

“Then what is it? Is it that humans are animals to you as well from your skewed vampire perspective? If that's the case, fine, it’s an issue with your species,” he throws his hands up angrily, as if in surrender. “But I want no part of this. I didn't escape from that madman to become someone else’s _pet_ ,” and the word comes out almost like he's spitting it. “I’m still a being with emotions and a higher thought process, and you don’t get to talk down to me and violate my person as you feel. That makes you no better than that bastard Grindelwald. Worse, even.”

Newt’s mouth almost drops open. Where in Merlin’s name are these insults and accusations coming from? He has been nothing but benevolent and kind, treated Percy with far more patience than he would have any kind of human and this is the attitude he receives. But before he can even reply, the man shakes his head and walks past him briskly.

“Where do you think you’re going,” Newt says calmly, hears him pause.

“I’m not staying here with a lunatic who has the social aptitude of the creatures with which he surrounds himself,” is the infuriating reply, then Percy walks off.

For a moment, Newt can’t tell what he’s feeling—affronted, incredulous, disrespected, and more—and he only snaps out of it when Dougal chirps sadly in his ear and pats his cheek. He reaches over and ruffles the demiguise’s fur softly before crouching to let him down. He also floats the occamy back to her next and shoos the diricawls away, makes sure that they’re safely back in their homes, then heads toward the exit.

Surprisingly, Percy hasn’t left yet, standing by the door with a trembling hand on the handle and shoulders hunched. It’s reminiscent of last night but this time, Newt has no sympathies. He watches from the hall connecting the living room to the entryway, not approaching just yet.

“Come back here, Percy,” Newt calls in a measured tone. “You don't have anywhere to go.”

“That's Mr. Graves to you,” Percy growls back and doesn’t comment on the latter part. That seems to be the last straw and somehow the man finds the strength to turn the knob.

—only it doesn’t.

Percy freezes, panic spiking his blood sharply, and that’s when Newt walks over, hears his wolf fumble with spells to try and open the door. All it does is create sparks of magic because he doesn’t yet realise that he needs to train his magic to flow through his changed body. Newt stops right behind him and tension radiates off of his wolf in near suffocating waves, but he slowly reaches around him and points at the knob, unlocks it with a _click_.

“Go on,” Newt says tauntingly, stepping back.

The only sound between them is the harsh, unstable breathing of a man who is fighting to swim. Then there’s a low keen followed by a pitiful, broken whimper—the sound of sinking, drowning. Or so Newt thinks.

With what seems like great effort, Percy suddenly stands straight and grips the knob hard, twists it open and stumbles forward. Again, Newt is shocked, stands there dumbly as Percy shakily steps out the door and there’s a split moment that his mind goes blank, while the man peers down one side of the hall then the other, eyes widening with relief. And in an unconscious, rash move completely unlike himself, Newt surges forward and snatched the wrist of the hand still on the knob. Percy yelps as he’s spun around and pulled back inside, door slamming closed, and he struggles ferociously as soon as he recovers.

“Let _go_ of me,” and dear god, Percy's eyes flash full gold, pointed canines visible as he bares his teeth in a vicious snarl and dark hair wild about his face.

It’s _beautiful_.

Newt swallows once and the moment he loosens his grip, Percy rips his hand away. Already there is a ring of red marking the pale skin and he feels an unfamiliar twinge in his chest. He never uses physical force against his creatures—not to _hurt_ —and this idiot wolf somehow managed to provoke him into losing control.

Percy takes a step back from him as he raises his wand, slowly bleeding back to his normal brown and teeth shortening. He doesn’t think the man is aware of what just happened.

“Do not touch me again,” he warns.

An unusual silence falls between them and for the third time in as many days, Newt is dealing with an unknown situation. Needless to say, he doesn’t like it. His wolf looks at him not with fear but challenge, and he nearly bares his own fangs. Neither move nor speak for some time, and then the phone’s abrupt ringing startles them both out of standstill.

“A phone, huh. Aren’t you going to pick up?” Percy asks, arching a brow.

He probably should, but the moment Newt turns away, he knows Percy will slip out the door and disappear. The easy thing to do would be to lock it again magically so that he wouldn’t be able to leave; the _easier_ thing to do would be to let this one go—be rid of the trouble—and return his focus to obtaining what he originally planned. But the appeal is still there; if anything, he’s rather fascinated and Newt isn’t in the habit of leaving his curiosity unsatisfied.

“My brother won’t mind,” Newt shrugs.

Percy’s eyes widen, and it yet another unexpected move, he charges straight past Newt towards the shrill sound which is the opposite of his freedom. Newt follows and turns the corner into the living room as the ringing stops, and his wolf just a couple steps short of the table which the phone sits on. His shoulders droop slightly in seeming disappointment and it strangely irks Newt that he had been eager to talk to Theseus.

“Percy—”

He walks over, and Percy glares at him with fists clenched. But then the fireplace in front of the table crackles to life and they both turn to it as Theseus’s face rises from the burning wood.

“Artemis, you had better be outdoors as an excuse for—” Theseus pauses, blinks at Percy. “Graves? What in the world are you doing here? With Artemis, no less.”

“Scamander,” Percy breathes in disbelief, stumbles over and kneels by the fire.

“I just spoke to Madam Picquery,” Theseus says, “and she told me you haven’t been to work the last couple days.”

“I haven't been to work the last couple months, at least,” Percy says, sounding overtired. “Grindelwald is here in New York wearing my face. I—I need to warn them.”

Theseus makes a thoughtful and sympathetic noise. “I'm sorry to hear that, my friend. How are you doing? You look terrible, actually.”

Newt raises a brow in surprise at that, having thought Percy to be an acquaintance at best. But a friend?

“Could be better,” Percy sighs, leaning onto his heels and dragging a hand over his face.

“I can imagine. My brother told me that there was something off about you—was sceptical to be honest since he never met you before, but Artemis has good instincts,” Theseus continues, glancing at Newt. “I'll inform MACUSA about your imposter.”

“Thank you,” Percy replies hoarsely and throws a brief, surprised look over his shoulder at him.

“Now, the question is...” Theseus addresses Newt, still standing by the table, “What is he doing _here_ , little brother?”

He hears the implication in those words—why is there _human_  company around him—and feels his back go up defensively. Newt hates that even now as a full-grown adult, Theseus can make him small and young. He can't say why the question sounds accusatory when he did nothing wrong.

“I was the one who found him, Theese,” Newt mutters.

“That's not what I'm asking; this is rather unlike you.”

Percy turns away, and his brother takes note of it.

Newt sighs. “Look, it was Grindylow—”

“Grindelwald,” both of them correct him annoyingly.

“—who turned him into a werewolf.” Theseus’s eyes widen. “And he was weak and injured severely, so I...” he trails off, waving his hand vaguely.

“Of course you did,” his brother groans. “But why didn't you tell me? You don't even like werewolves.”

He sees Percy stiffen, hands digging into his knees.

“I was trying to yesterday, but you weren’t listening,” Newt points out, not taking his eyes off of his wolf.

“Alright, that was my mistake,” Theseus concedes, “I’ll find someone who can help him—”

“ _No_ , he’s _mine_ ,” Newt growls even before he can think about it.

After his unplanned outburst, the room fills with a deafening silence and something uncomfortable twists in his chest, something like—dare he say—mortification. That was beyond childish, even for him, and he wonders where it all went wrong.

“Mercy Lewis,” Theseus mutters knowingly while Percy finally turns his head, looking shocked and confused.

And Newt can’t stand another minute of this indignity so he grits his teeth and summons his coat.

“I’ve got business,” he says as he puts it on. “I suggest you stay here, _Mr. Graves_ , seeing as you can’t use your magic properly yet. Theese, please keep him company.”

Before he leaves his flat, he hears Theseus apologising to Percy about his appalling social skills and it takes more effort than he’d like to admit to not slam the door behind him. Once outside, Newt tries to force all thoughts of Percy from his mind as he casts his anti-glamour charm. It's no good to be distracted when he’s this close to his target and he curses himself for his lack of self-discipline.

His day takes a turn for the worse when Credence isn’t to be found at the orphanage and Charming Mary Lou only yields that she sent him on an errand that he hasn’t returned from. The odours of the city prevent Newt from locating him with any accuracy and frustration keeps building despite his intention to cool his head. And so, he walks into the first confectionery store he sees, comes out with candies that he bites viciously into.

They provide a minute distraction from his own head, especially when he imagines the soft, chewy ones as a kind of flesh. But then that leads to Percy and his lack of it, still too thin and waif-like. Newt hasn’t been doing a good job of feeding him and making him feel comfortable; everything he has done so far only led to aggravating the man. He has been accused of not knowing how to treat a person, but of course he does. Admittedly, he might have been a bit overbearing in his enthusiasm, yet it's true that he cares for Percy with far more consideration than he does any human, even though he’s a werewolf.

Why doesn’t he understand that?

Before he knows it, he's reaching into an empty bag and even that adds to his worsening mood. So much for not thinking about it.

A good part of the day has passed while walking aimlessly and Newt partially regrets leaving. He should have gone into his case instead; at least his creatures would have comforted him unlike this pointless wandering.

He’s about to head back—maybe drop by the orphanage once more on the way—when he feels a familiar magical signature.

Sure enough, he walks into the narrow paths between the buildings and follows it to a scene that gives him a sense of déjà vu: an apparently upset Credence wringing his hands together while Percy’s imposter speaks to him, his back to Newt.

They’re standing together at a dead end of an alley and just as that first time, Newt hides around the corner, wondering if he should snatch the both of them while they’re occupied. If he captures the offender and show him to Percy, that might make his wolf feel better.

“—and for that reason, I cannot trust you with the task anymore,” Grindling says with disappointment.

Hurt blooms on Credence’s face. “But I’ve been doing my best, Mr. Graves; I swear there haven’t been any signs of—”

“This is where we part ways, my boy,” the other man cuts him off with a dismissal wave. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

He doesn’t sound very apologetic, Newt thinks, and keeps a close eye on the boy who has gone slack from shock and betrayal.

He opens his mouth and shuts it a couple times then finally stutters out, “My—my sisters, what about my sisters, Mr. Graves? You said—you promised—we can’t stay there anymore. She won’t _stop_.”

“Then why don’t _you_  do something about it,” Grindling sighs in annoyance. “This is no longer my concern; our deal is over.”

This isn’t good; he’s unknowingly provoking the boy, the fool, and if Credence reveals himself to be the obscurial right now, it could become a disaster. Newt steps forward and calls out to him, ignores the imposter’s glare and outraged cry of “You again?” He only cares that Credence doesn’t hear nor acknowledge him, arms wrapped around himself tightly as if to hold his body together.

“Credence,” Newt tries again, shooting a scathing glance as he passes by the wizard and approaches the younger man cautiously. “It’s alright, don’t listen to him. I can help you.”

Credence chokes on a sob, then lets loose a scream of anguish as a dangerous swirl of black smoke and magic bursts from him. _Shit_.

“It can’t be,” gasps the idiot behind him.

“Credence, I can take you somewhere safe, you and your sisters,” Newt says a bit louder. “But you need to calm yourself.” Then while keeping his eyes on the boy, he throws one of his hands back to push the other man away and growls, “Get out of here. You’ve done enough damage already.”

And it's like today is the day that everyone decided not to listen to him because the bastard shoves past Newt to get to the obscurial which seems to threaten the poor thing. Credence becomes a large cloud of smoke before the man reaches him and Newt only just manages to yank Grindling out of the way when it streaks by them and shoots straight into the sky.

The man immediately pulls away and ends up with his coat and scarf stripped of him, and he whirls around to face Newt, furious.

“You've ruined things for the last time, you damn bloodsucker,” the man grits out, visibly holding himself back from yelling.

Newt takes a moment to hang the coat and scarf over his arm, not intending to return it—to the imposter, that is.

“Did I?” Newt says coolly. “I just saved your life after _you_  set him off.”

“And why did you?” his expression smooths out, tone changing to something politely curious and Newt has to give him credit for his control and good acting. “We’ve established by now that we are thorns in each other’s sides.”

“Not quite,” Newt hums. “Credence now sees you as someone to fear and despise and he will likely come for you to remove the source of his pain. So, Mr. Grindelwald—”

He grins, all teeth, amused by the way Grindelwald is caught off-guard, and that’s all the time he gives before he pulls Felicity from inside his coat to toss at him. Newt watches as she blooms from her cocoon and latches onto the man, causing him to shout in surprise. He’s bound before he knows it and stumbles onto his knees when he loses balance.

“You’re going to be my bait,” Newt finishes triumphantly and basks in glower of hatred shot towards him.

“Who the hell are you,” Grindelwald growls, struggling in his binds.

Newt pulls him up carelessly and starts walking them in the direction that Credence flew off. “You might have heard of me since you’re so knowledgeable about my species,” Newt drawls. “The name’s Newt Scamander.”

Grindelwald's eyes widen slightly, then close in resignation. “Of course you are.”

“You really do know,” Newt mutters, impressed.

“I might have recognised you earlier if you weren't such a recluse, even among your kind,” the man grumbles and because he’s still in disguise, it’s a bit cute.

Genuinely curious, Newt asks, “Do you make a habit of meeting vampires, then?”

“I welcome anyone who is interested in supporting my cause,” is the vague answer he gets.

Alright, that’s enough for now. Credence is moving fast and he leaves panic and minor destruction in his wake. After a quick cast of a disillusionment charm, they follow onto the main streets—well, Newt does and drags his captive along, passing by fallen citizens who are either screaming or staring dumbly. But the cloud is shrinking rapidly into the distance. That he didn’t come back for Grindelwald is perplexing, but then Newt remembers someone else who is also the target of his ire.

And heedless of the public, muggle eyes in his haste, Newt mutters a warning to Grindelwald and apparates to the orphanage.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeeey long time no see. I apologise beforehand for the weirdness of this chapter because it was written bit by bit over the course of the past couple weeks so it might lack some consistency. Also, it's might feel confusing because that's how Newt feels overall in this section.
> 
> As to why it took so long, I had to scrap and rewrite a lot of parts because I found them lacking/disruptive/inconsistent/wtf as well as playing video games most nights after work or reading SPN fanfic (I can't friggin' believe I went back to it lol)
> 
> Anyway, one more chapter to go and I already started writing something else oops but I was inspired. So, hope to wrap this one up soon and get the other story up.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

They arrive nearby in time to see the roof of the orphanage being torn off and it's disconcerting to hear the screams of the children within as debris rain on them. Fortunately for them, Mary Lou comes dashing out of the building to save her own hide, unknowing that she herself is the target. Predictably, the obscurial heads straight for her and snatches up the screeching woman in its menacing embrace, and he and his captive watch with morbid fascination as the smoke tosses her into the front brick wall of the orphanage. There’s a sickening crack when she collides cutting off her screams, and even as she falls back towards the ground, it catches her again only to throw her down from up high.

Mary Lou Barebone hits the ground with a _thud_ and doesn’t move again, face frozen in a grotesque expression of the final moment of her life as she bleeds from her mangled body. The obscurial hovers above her as if unsure of its next move after the sudden violence, and Newt takes this chance to approach slowly, pulling the man with him who seems mesmerised by the sight.

“Credence, it’s alright now,” Newt says once he's close enough, not even blinking as the large smoke roils and twists in agitation when it notices them. “No one is going to hurt you anymore.”

He holds the captured form of Grindelwald on clear display, hoping the immobilized state of the wizard will be reassuring enough.

It's then that Grindelwald realises the precarious situation he's in and growls at him, “Am I to be your sacrifice to him?” while staring disbelievingly.

“Shush, you’re only helping me lure him to my flat,” Newt mutters distractedly, watching closely to anticipate its movements.

But for some reason, the lunge towards them is hesitant in nature and Newt is able to sidestep out of the way easily. The next attack doesn’t come right away either, and it's strange enough that he makes a note to add this behaviour to his notes for further observation.

“What is it doing?” his bait asks, seeming just as confused.

It rears back right then for another attempt when something unexpected happens.

“Credence!”

Though he doesn’t turn his eyes from the obscurial like the bound man towards the shout, Newt stiffens in surprise at the voice. Soon after, Percy runs into view, stopping between Newt and the floating cloud. _What in hell’s name_ —

“Credence, you need to calm down,” Percy calls up, apparently familiar with it.

And to Newt’s further shock, the smoke recedes as it drops slowly back to the ground and reveals the form of the boy  once more. Credence, now sprawled on his stomach, stares bewilderingly between Percy and Grindelwald. Deeming it safe and heedless of three shocked gazes on him, Percy rushes over and helps the boy up.

“Mis—Mr. Graves? I don’t—why is there two of you—” Credence stammers, then grunts when he's crushed in an embrace.

“Thank Morgana you’re okay,” Newt hears the words of relief.

Even with his lack of acknowledgment for general social conventions, he can tell this is too private and tender a moment for them to be witnessing. Percy displays a kind of protectiveness that speaks of deeper affection towards Credence. Somehow, everyone involved in this situation is connected to one another in ways Newt did not predict.

But he doesn’t remain idle because he starts sensing a gathering of magical energies, lunges and grabs the closest part he can reach of the which happens to be Percy’s shoulder. He feels the man tense as he apparates all four of them away.

 

 

Though modest, Newt’s flat had never felt too small for him. Until now.

With four people crammed into the living room, he takes absent note of both his sofas occupied—one by Credence, the other by Grindelwald—and Percy standing protectively between the two of them while a trembling hand points his wand at the bound man. And barely any space left for him as he stands at the entryway.

Percy isn't happy, of course, but Newt isn’t happy with him either because he was supposed to be here and not exposing himself to further harm by charging after an obscurial without prior knowledge or experience. And he argues back, doesn’t listen for the first few minutes that no, Newt did _not_  kidnap him and he is _not_  working together with Grindelwald.

“If anything, I’m the one who is kidnapped here,” Grindelwald interjects.

“Do be quiet,” Newt says at the same time Percy snaps, “Shut your mouth.”

Credence is watching everything with a sort of wide, dazed look, probably having some difficulty processing this whole situation. He seems to have trouble focusing between him and Percy or Percy and his imposter. Newt also finds it a little disconcerting to have the both of them in the same room so he uses the momentary reprieve to cast _revelio_.

He can’t quite stop the grimace as the captured Percy’s face melts away to reveal pasty skin with unruly white hair and generally unpleasant features. “I suppose I can understand why you’d want to look like Percy.” Someone chokes. “Anyway, please try not to kill one another while I figure out how to sort this mess.”

Newt’s first step is to inform his brother who sighs and groans and complains “Why do you never listen to me, Artemis?” but confirms that he will be here in the morning to deal with the official matters. He also gets an unwanted lecture about proper etiquette to use when interacting with Percy.

“I mean it,” his brother says rather seriously. “Don’t touch him or give him orders, ask for permission and keep your distance. Pretend to be the gentleman I know you’re capable of being.”

Torn between offense at the implication that he’s uncouth and surprise at the first time Theseus is interceding in Newt's personal business, Newt mumbles his concession and hangs up. As much as he'd like to ignore it, he can't if he wants to avoid getting into any trouble with his brother. He returns to the living room afterwards—quietly that they don’t notice—and observes the man in question.

Percy hasn’t moved, still acting as a barrier between Credence and Grindelwald even though he himself fears his tormentor. Besides the minute shaking, one wouldn’t be able to tell from his expression that he’s afraid from simply looking at him. Newt knows otherwise, can smell it in the air.

There have been others, self-righteous men and women with a strong sense of justice and sacrificial tendencies for the sake of their beliefs. Ones who are convicted that they are strong and brave when in fact it’s the opposite. He has seen them in wars, revolutions, rebellions, in desperate situations with lives hanging in the balance. It’s an admirable quality if a little reckless and foolish, definitely irrational. But for some odd reason, it appears attractive on his wolf even though werewolves aren’t the most beautiful of creatures.

Again, he tells himself that it'd be easier to not even bother, that he should just take the obscurial and leave.

Speaking of, Newt’s curious as to what their connection is. Perhaps the ‘Mr. Graves’ Credence had referred to at some point was in fact Percy before he was compromised, and Grindelwald had gleaned that from his mind. That would explain the change in attitude Credence experienced and why he felt betrayed. If that’s the case, then did Percy already know of the obscurus within the boy?

Newt inwardly groans; every line of thought is only leading to more questions and he curses his curiosity.

Percy tenses and whips his head around to where Newt is in the shadows of the hall, and he realises he must have been staring too hard. He steps forward into the lit room, and returns the glare with a smile which only makes the man sneer.

“Mr. Newt,” Credence suddenly exclaims as he stands, face pale. “My sisters—I’ve forgotten—I need to go get them.”

Merlin's beard, he completely forgot about them in his haste to get away. Newt plasters on a reassuring smile before saying, “They’re with the law enforcers right now so they should be fine. We’ll go find them tomorrow, hm?”

Though his worry is palpable, a little Charm calms the young man and Credence bites his lip and nods. When he reaches out to pat the boy’s head, he sees Percy start a little, eyeing Newt suspiciously. He inwardly rolls his own eyes.

“Percy—” then he pauses, rephrases the sentence in his mind—“Percival, why don’t you and Credence go get some rest? I'll watch over that one for the night.”

“I’d rather do it myself,” is Percy’s curt response, and to Credence he says, “You must be exhausted; it's alright if you go ahead, I won't let them hurt you.”

“Oh,” Credence startles at being addressed. “I'm fine, Mr. Graves; I—I’d rather not be alone right now, actually.” He looks down at his lap and twists his hand nervously. “Is that alright, Mr. Newt?”

“Of course, it is,” Newt replies immediately with a smile when Percy is about to open his mouth again. “You’re wanting to know what has been happening to you, correct? I can help with that once everything is settled.”

It seems as though Percy wants to say something about that but keeps quiet for the moment and turns his attention back to Grindelwald who is watching everything with a smug sort of amusement.

Well, he’ll see if that expression remains intact when Theseus comes to collect him in a few hours.

 

 

“Why does he hate you so,” Grindelwald wonders out loud later in the night when both Percy and Credence have fallen asleep on one of the sofas leaning on one another.

Unfortunately, the only company Newt has right now is the one he least cares for, but as it is his current obligation to prevent the criminal’s escape, he has no other choice. Newt is sitting on the arm of the couch occupied by his charges with his wand aimed at Grindelwald—chained to the far wall of the living room—since he is personally seeing to keeping him incapacitated with Felicity back in her cocoon.

“Pardon?”

“I had initially thought you took him away from me with his best interest in mind,” the man says, glancing at his former captive. “But somehow it seems he abhors you as much as he does me.” He chuckles. “Not so good with people are you, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt frowns. That’s the second time he has been told that and of all people to patronize him— “That isn’t any of your business.”

“If you hadn’t interfered at that time, he might have been broken by now. It would have saved you the trouble.”

Newt has a retort ready on his tongue but he stops as the words process fully. “You must be joking. Don’t compare me—”

Grindelwald has the gall to interrupt, raising a brow pointedly. “It’s obvious how he looks at you—rebellious and stubborn, angry, fearful—the same way he regarded me not too long ago. To him, you and I aren’t much different, you realise.”

“What I’m realising,” Newt drawls, “is that I should just tear you apart here and now if only to stop you from spouting anymore nonsense.”

Though he keeps an outward calm, he’s outraged that a mere mortal dares to liken Newt’s hard work—what he prides himself in—to his own sadistic inclinations. Newt’s intentions are to provide and care for the creatures, to allow them to grow to their full potential and most optimal state of being. It’s nothing like abuse and torture.

But in the morning, seeing Percy continue to be wary and apprehensive of him, even going so far as to subtly steer Credence away, the words ring uncomfortably in his head. Newt keeps his distance and remains polite as requested, only to receive distrustful glances for it. Percy's behaviour frustrates him to no end and the man doesn't let his guard down once until Theseus arrives to collect Grindelwald.

And unbelievably, the sight of his brother has Percy near-running into his arms while Newt and Credence remain sitting, gaping a little at the sudden show of enthusiasm. Newt can hear them shuffling and exchanging far too many pleasantries and his eyes widen when they walk into the room, his brother’s arm around Percy's shoulder. It's hard to say whether it’s that the contact is far more welcomed and tolerated on Percy’s end compared to anything Newt had offered before or the sight of Theseus showing affection to one outside of family that throws him off. He watches them with part-interest and part-annoyance.

Theseus finally lets go of the man with a pat and turns to the rest of the occupants. He smiles briefly at Credence who is half-hidden behind Newt before leveling an amused grin at him.

“You seem to have made new friends here, little brother,” Theseus laughs as he draws Newt into a hug and ruffles his hair. “New York is treating you well, I see.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Newt mutters, hugging back, finds Percy giving them an odd look when they meet eyes over Theseus's shoulder.

The lightheartedness of their greeting is replaced by cool disdain when his brother addresses Grindelwald after releasing him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“War Hero Scamander,” Grindelwald returns. “Should have known you two are related.”

“Credence,” Newt hears Percy murmur, and Credence ducks past him with a nervous glance to go join the other man.

“You don’t know nearly as much as you’d like to believe,” Theseus says lightly, and with a gesture he has the wizard on his feet. He then nods at Newt. “Thanks for the gift, Artemis. I’ll meet you at the station.”

“Don’t forget the girls,” Newt reminds him, and Theseus marches them out the door, waves back carelessly.

Once the door closes and he hears them apparate, Newt faces the other two who are left. Percy is half-turned staring with empty eyes at where Theseus just left, as if he can’t believe what happened, and Credence appears relieved.

“He’s gone now,” Newt says, startling the man. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Percy meets his gaze absently. “That doesn’t mean he won’t escape, and now...” he trails off uncertainly, shakes his head. “Are you going to let me go?”

Newt firms his lips as irritation spikes. “What will you do after leaving here? Surely you aren’t planning to return to your life as if nothing has changed. You aren’t human anymore.”

He doesn’t know why he’s being unusually peevish about this, but the words have an immediate effect: Percy's face falls, stricken, eyes widening in vulnerability before visibly withdrawing into himself as a coldness takes over and colours his gaze.

“Of course not,” Percy replies indifferently, face shuttered. “I won't be putting anyone in danger like that.”

Credence looks uncertainly between them, utters softly, “What happened to Mr. Graves?”

Percy softens at hearing the boy, glances almost guiltily at him as if somehow it’s Percy’s own fault for what he has become. It irks Newt further, strangely, and he grits his teeth.

“I’ve been bitten by a werewolf,” Percy reveals reluctantly, lips twisting in a bitter smile at Credence's shocked gasp. “I can't help you anymore, not like this. I’m sorry,” and he genuinely sounds it. “I know of someone who can, however—”

“Actually,” Newt cuts in, drawing both their attention. “I was planning to have Credence and his sisters return with me to England—”

“Hold on—” Percy protests.

“He needs to learn how to control himself and I have the necessary experience to assist him with that,” Newt says over the interruption, crossing his arms. “He’ll have a home, a proper one, with everything he could ever want and no repercussions should he accidentally let loose every now and again.”

Percy falters, then growls, “You can’t force him.”

“Credence,” Newt turns to the boy, “To be honest, I came here to take you away from the system that failed you. My family is powerful, and I can guarantee that no further harm will come to you or your sisters.”

His intention isn’t as noble as he makes it sound, but Newt has learned early on that it’s mainly about having it sound appealing to the listening party. If it wasn’t for the meddling, he wouldn’t even have had to go through this trouble of convincing but he's just as adept at improvising after all these years.

“I like you, Credence,” Newt says with an easy smile, and reaches over to gently pat the boy’s head. “I promise you'll be safe with us.”

The face he sees is one of tentative hope and Newt lets himself grin at his success. Credence smiled back shyly.

“Wait.” Percy, who has been watching the exchange with keen eyes, steps forward and inserts himself between them. “I cannot trust you with him; your idea of 'harm' only seems limited to physical but there are other ways to hurt someone which you are perfectly capable of.”

It doesn’t bother Newt that Percy is trying to discredit him, having expected it. In fact, it’s greater insight into the man's thoughts that he considers what Newt has done for him ‘harmful’. He can't exactly say why that is the case with this man, but if all goes well, he’ll have plenty of time to assess and adjust the way in which he approaches his wolf in the future.

“Mr. Graves,” Newt emphasizes, tone polite, “we seem to have started on the wrong foot and I apologise for having made your stay uncomfortable.” He ignores the rude snort he receives and the equally rude muttering under the breath. “I’m afraid I may have been a little... eager to help and in no way did I intend to demean you or make you feel trapped. I only meant to show that as a wolf—which is now an integral part of you—you would not find my provision lacking. But I understand that you are still mostly human and I apologise for my earlier outburst as well.”

Redness creeps up Percy's neck and Newt's eyes are unconsciously drawn to it. He quickly forces himself to look back up.

“However, it remains true that the situation you’re in isn’t ideal. The chances of any pack taking you in as one of their own are slim to none, if we can even find one. You have yet to familiarise yourself with your other half and transformations will be difficult and painful as a result; it can leave you vulnerable to attacks if you are caught unaware. The magic within you now channels differently, making it unstable at best which is dangerous to you and others that may be in the vicinity.” Newt arranges his expression into something sympathetic. “That’s why I’m hoping you’ll come with us. Between Theseus and I, we can help.”

The mention of his brother—as predicted—erases the last of Percy’s reserve, and all that’s left is weariness and resignation. Percy closes his eyes and breathes quietly, an unhappy frown furrowing his brows. If not for the delicacy of this moment, Newt would have liked to draw him close and rub his back, sides, neck until the man relaxes into his arms. He’s already holding back from Charming him because he suspects that with Percy’s heightened senses, he may notice a foreign energy. Newt could do it if he tried, but he doesn’t want to risk it at this point.

Percy reopens his eyes suddenly, and the gaze directed at him is surprisingly clear and sharp.

“You are a predator, Mr. Scamander,” Percy says, quiet but hard. He straightens up, squares his shoulders and jaw. Challenges. “And you acted as one, true to your own nature. You continue to take me for a fool thinking that this feeble attempt at civility negates what you have already done.”

Newt blinks. “Excuse me?”

“But you are correct in that I have no other resources available to be of use for my current predicament. I will come along because I do need to learn how this damned body works and I’d rather not leave Credence alone with you,” Percy continues. “I trust that Theseus will keep you in line during our stay.”

That startles an incredulous laugh out of Newt, and he’s simultaneously amused and annoyed at this boldness. “My brother isn’t my keeper, Mr. Graves.”

The next response is even more bewildering: a disbelieving look with a hint of smugness, a slightly dry, “Of course, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt can’t decide if he wants to put the wolf in his place or coax him further out of his shell. There’s a different kind of appeal in the confidence he wears like a well-fitted suit compared to the docile creature he had been not too long ago. He also wonders what Theseus might have told him in Newt's absence.

“Think what you will,” Newt shrugs, smiling. “I’m merely suggesting. It’s an offer few have the privilege of receiving.”

“ _Privilege_ ,” Percy repeats sarcastically and Newt feels his smile turn a touch sharp.

It seems his wolf is far from just a pretty face. He’s barbed, aggressive, makes one think at first glance he is someone not to be approached but to be admired from a distance. But Newt knows better. Percy is in need of something soft, having yet to shake off completely the aftermath of his trauma. And judging from his bond with Credence, he’s perfectly capable of attachments.

Speaking of, Newt belatedly realises Credence's nerves due to the tension between them. Dark energy simmers underneath the layer of his skin in response to his emotions—understandable since he’s still on edge from last night’s ordeal. Percy also notices, forces himself to relax.

“When are we leaving?” he asks.

“Theseus won't be long, perhaps another couple hours or so,” Newt answers. “If you have no other business here, we can head out soon.”

“That’s—”

But when Newt tilts his head in question, Percy presses his lips together and seems to think for a moment before shaking his head.

“No need to say goodbyes?” Newt presses, feeling generous.

The only reaction he gets is a slight pause and eyes going dark. Alright, then.

Percy falls completely quiet after that, lost in his thoughts when he isn’t taking in his last view of this part of the city as they walk to an apparition point at his insistence—law-abiding, as he puts it. He can’t quite hide his sorrow as the knowledge of their imminent departure seems to set in, the way his shoulders slump the tiniest bit, the tense corners of his mouth and tightness to his jaw; nothing obvious except for the way he smells, but Newt has been watching closer than he’d like to admit. He chooses not to acknowledge it, instead participates in absent chatter with Credence.

He becomes distracted again at the meeting point when he catches how the man’s whole demeanor shifts subtly to something lighter, easier, softer as Theseus comes into view. It’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Envy unexpectedly wells up inside, confusing him, since Newt isn’t one for being the centre of attention in any situation; his brother inherited all of that particular attribute from their parents. Yet why is it that he can only think about how even though he’s the one who saved Percy, Theseus is the one being regarded as such?

It isn't until his brother waves at him that he notices he’s the only one who lingered behind, Credence already having run over to reunite tearfully with his sisters. Percy is conversing with them as well, body language open and inviting, even extending a hand to them as a gesture of peace. He accepts their arms around his neck as he embraces them, pats Credence's cheek with fondness, leans into Theseus's hand on his shoulder.

And Newt is the outsider looking in, a suitcase of creatures he deeply cares for in hand, an unknown feeling twisting in his chest. He suddenly, viscerally misses his children, the comfort of his home, being away from prying eyes and strangers who could never hope to gain his interest, never mind his trust. People are complicated and he has always hated that.

But right now, things are complicated. It wasn’t supposed to be, not with what he came to accomplish initially.

Newt doesn’t like it, not one bit.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess whose muse was a good girl recently? But man, I am my biggest enemy in my own writing, always making things difficult for myself. Always have such a hard time wrapping up my own works, geez.
> 
> Anyway, that's it for this part. It will (hopefully) be followed by a series of snapshots that portray the development of Percival's foray into werewolfhood as well as the lovely(???) relationship between him and Newt, and also their life as an unconventional family.
> 
> Mainly wrote this to try and challenge myself with different dynamics for these two so in that way, I had fun. See you next time!

Percival cautiously makes his way down the stairs; partly because he’s still unsure about being here, and partly because he's feeling weak from the nightmare he just woke from.

The mansion is even more intimidating this time of night when the darkness casts eerie shadows on every surface. The residents of this place already put him on edge when visible and he can only hope that his heart won’t give out from shock if he runs into them when he can’t see a damn thing.

No, that isn’t exactly true.

His night vision is one of the few physiological improvements that came with his transformation. If he concentrates, he can also hear wisps of movements reverberating throughout the spaces and distinguish between different smells—specifically, the animate and inanimate. These heightened senses only serve to remind him of his inhuman qualities he now possesses, he thinks bitterly.

“What are you doing, Mr. Graves?”

Percival barely suppresses a yelp, spinning around to see one of the children—Lily, if he recalls correctly—standing behind him. He can’t say anything at first with his breath caught in his throat and heart hammering away like it wants his chest to cave in.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Lily says. “I didn't mean to frighten you. Are you lost? I can escort you back, if you'd like.”

This one unnerves him to no end, with her appearance of an adolescent yet the eyes and mannerisms of an old, dangerous thing. The contrast and contradiction messes with his mind but some part understands that the unnatural physicality of youth is common for these creatures. She means well, probably.

“I—” he croaks, then tries again after clearing his throat, “I’d like to get some water. If you could take me to the kitchen—”

“Of course,” she says, smile kind if a little patronizing, though that could be his nerves and his inability to perceive things properly at the moment. Lily offers a hand and her smile remains even when Percival can’t bring himself to take it out of self-preservation. “Follow me, please.”

It's another two staircases, a hallway passing several rooms, and some twists and turns later that they arrive at a magnificent kitchen as fittingly large as the other rooms. Percival smells the tea before they enter and sure enough, there sits Newt Scamander, books, papers and a cup in front of him on an island structure in the middle of the kitchen, eyeing them. No one says anything but a silent conversation seems to pass between the supposed father and daughter and then Lily bids them a good night before leaving. Percival resists both calling her back and running out himself.

When he turns his eyes cautiously towards Newt, the vampire simply nods at him then refocuses on what he was doing. It takes an embarrassingly long time for Percival’s feet to move him towards the nearest cupboards. The first reveals a shelf of plates, the second a collection of antiques.

“It’s on the other side,” Percival hears and it startles him into slamming the cupboard door shut. He can’t help flinching at the loud noise and a quick turn of the head shows Newt watching him with a frown. “Do I frighten you still?”

Percival grits his teeth and doesn’t respond, regretting his decision to come here. The aftereffects of the nightmare are still causing minute tremors in his body and though he doesn’t want to appear afraid, he isn’t quite feeling brave enough to face one captor immediately after dreaming about the other. Newt sighs and Percival holds himself stiffly as the vampire rises from his seat without a sound, but he merely walks over to another set of cupboards to pull out a glass and fill it with water from the tap—from a proper filtration system, they said, because they can afford it. He sets it on the island-top and before returning to his spot at the end of it, starts reading again.

Another minute or two passes before Percival can bring himself to go closer, close enough that he can snatch the glass and greedily gulp down much needed water. A part of him screams that he should have checked for poison or other possible unsavoury chemicals in it, but he's too thirsty to care and also briefly thinks he'd rather die anyway. But there’s nothing particularly strange about the taste, no different from what has been provided so far, and it's remarkable that he can recognise that.

Percival puts down the cup and leaves the kitchen without another glance and further delay, too conscious of the eyes that follow him out.

A month here has made him no less comfortable than when he had first arrived into this den of predators. To be fair, they—Newt and his ‘children’—have been nothing but civil towards him and his new charges, but he can’t help the unease that plagues him constantly. If it weren’t for Credence and his sisters, Percival would have left by now as his instincts tell him to, but so far, this is a good place for them. The children surprisingly get along, welcoming towards each other in a way that only innocents are capable of—though how innocent these other ones are, he can't truly say.

Theseus visits as often he can, residing next door and all, but it isn't enough and Percival finds himself dreading every time he needs to head back home to his own family. Out of respect for his friend and his privacy, as well as his own dignity, Percival doesn’t ask to stay with him instead, but it's always a close thing.

Perhaps there’s irony in that he trusts one vampiric creature over the other even though both are potentially a danger to him, but admittedly he's weak. Theseus is familiar—friendly, even—despite the signs Percival had personally witnessed that are indicative of the man's inhuman qualities. Ultimately, he chooses not to harm humans unless necessary as far as Percival knows and that's reassuring enough for him. With Newt, he's under the very real threat of being mistreated and it's justifiable cause to be wary.

But, that isn't quite true, either, Percival thinks with a grimace.

The... _other_  part of him believes otherwise. Since he and the vampire had first met in Percival's wolf state, it had found safety in a moment of vulnerability, and so an attachment of sorts has been established. Last week was proof of such, when the unfortunate transformation had occurred in the light of the full moon; from what he vaguely remembered during that period as well as the evidence of waking up in the vampire’s case, the wolf had deemed Newt to be safe. Even after waking, he had been sufficiently out of his mind to allow himself be nursed through the brief and painful aftereffects of changing back.

Still, unable to intellectually accept him as an ally, he avoids interaction with the creature any other time.

Until tonight, that is.

All that stress has accumulated into recurring nightmares, it seems, and if it weren't for them, surely this meeting wouldn't have occurred.

A snarl of frustration escapes him, animalistic in a perturbing way, and he spends the rest of the night kept awake by the ticking of the clock, rustling of sheets, and the certainty that someone is up and moving throughout the house without noise.

 

 

The next week brings another nightmare, another encounter.

Newt nods at him in greeting, pale and eerie in the glow of the fire in one of the sitting rooms Percival happens to wander into. He backs away but trips on his own feet in his haste to leave, and he braces for the crash—

—only to be yanked by the arm upright, crashing forward into something else instead.

“Are you alright, Mr. Graves?”

Percival rights himself, then slowly meets Newt's eyes and a shiver runs down his spine. Just a second ago, Newt had been sitting in an armchair at the other end of the large room but now he stands right in front of him, eyeing Percival with what would have been concern on any other person, holding his arm—

“Let go,” he says, surprisingly steady.

And when Newt does with a murmured apology and sheepish smile, Percival releases a breath he didn't realise he had been holding, and turns around without another word.

“Good night, Mr. Graves,” Newt calls from behind.

Unnatural, such a movement, Percival thinks hysterically.

A monster.

 

 

Newt doesn't approach him at all. No, if anything, Percival seems to be the one stumbling in on him from time to time. He keeps their interactions to a minimum when it’s just the two of them, maintains some civility around the children and Theseus.

The girls don’t notice much from the subtlety he displays, but every now and again Credence eyes between him and Newt curiously. He exercises enough discretion, though, keeping whatever questions he has to himself. Percival is grateful and troubled at the same time, because he’s certain it’s out of an unconscious fear of possible consequences that prevents the boy from asking. While he’d like to assuage such notions, he’d also rather not have to explain the animosity he has towards the vampire.

“It's alright, Credence,” is all he tells him. “Everything's fine,” and receives a nervous nod in response.

To be fair, the children are a wonderful distraction from the unwanted changes that have happened in his life, a grounding point when he feels an urge to lash out. The fact that he spends only one night of the month as a beast makes it easy to ignore that part as long as he remains in control the rest of the time, although rationally he knows it isn’t the healthiest of ways to cope. But it's like a wound that is easier to let fester rather than going to see a doctor because the doctor has already hurt him once.

Percival snorts. 'Doctor’, right.

“What's so funny, Mr. Graves?” Modesty, who's on the sofa next to him, asks, blinking up from her reading curiously.

“Well, I believe that would be the sound coming from a certain young missy’s stomach,” Percival replies, drawn into a reluctant smile when the child pouts.

“I can't help it,” she mumbles, returning to her book. “Lily said we'll have a picnic today so I want to wait.”

“Did she now—in this weather?”

“Newt’s coming with us and he’s going to do his magic thing to keep us warm, don’t worry,” is her reply.

Percival frowns; not only one but with two of them? Though Lily seems to be an obedient girl, taking after her father in terms of appetite, he still can’t be sure at this point. With that in mind, he’d rather not let Modesty go alone with them. Luckily, she invites him first willingly to come along with them.

Credence and Chastity should be fine for a couple hours, he thinks.

Lily soon comes by to inform them that everything’s ready, and Newt joins at the door as they are leaving; he and Percival exchange perfunctory nods.

Outside, the snow crunches softly beneath his feet, the white nearly blinding him if not for the branches of surrounding trees breaking the sun's rays into small spots of reflection rather than a giant glare. It’s not as cold as he expected, no need for any warming charms, and a quick glance at Modesty shows how she’s perfectly comfortable under Newt’s spell. The vampire doesn’t show much of his using magic and it reluctantly piques Percival’s curiosity as to how powerful the being might be. He had managed to chase away Grindelwald that night Percival escaped, and that’s saying something seeing as Grindelwald is quite powerful himself.

Percival blinks out of his thoughts when he feels a tug on his hand, and lets himself be guided down onto a spell-protected sheet to sit next to Modesty. She and Lily immediately start up an excited chatter as they pull out food from picnic basket, and it’s surreal to see a who-knows-how-old creature get along with a human child. He catches Newt observing them with a smile before helping set up for the meal.

Lunch is a simple affair, and afterwards with his belly full and body comfortable, Percival finds himself enjoying a little sun while the girls play a game and Newt scribbles away at his notes for the book.

A bird chitters in the distance; it ruffles its feathers once, twice, then quiets down. Crisp winter air fill his lungs with each breath, clean and refreshing, and it’s such a difference from what he used to inhale in the city. The sun beats down on them from a clear sky, its warmth relaxing him to the point of drowsiness.

He doesn’t notice the rumble in his chest.

“Mr. Graves, it’s time to go.”

A hand on his knee jolts him awake, and Percival bites back a sudden urge to growl. He then pauses in shock, feels his eyes widen as they meet Newt’s calm ones.

“There you are,” the other says gently. “It’s getting late.”

A quick look tells him that everything has been packed up, everyone ready to go but him. He shakes off Newt’s hand as he stands, startled at how much time has passed judging by the sun’s position.

“Mr. Graves?” Modesty calls from where she's standing, waiting.

“It’s alright, he’s only tired,” Newt answers for him as he gathers his bearings.

Again, he feels a gaze heavy on his back as they return and again he ignores it.

 

 

It happens a second time, then a third.

Something catches his attention and distracts him, and the next thing he knows, his mind has wandered for a good hour or two.

The fourth time, one of the children are with him and Chastity fetches Newt because he unnerved her with his proneness. The fifth, he comes back to hear a low rumble from his own throat while gazing up at a darkened sky with a half-moon.

“You’re dissociating,” Newt says to him one night, after Theseus has left and the children have gone up to bed.

Percival had thought to enjoy a small nightcap first before heading up to sleep. His surprise when Newt strolls into the kitchen almost has him choking on a sip, because he's accustomed to being left alone once he separates himself from company. He suppresses a shiver when those unnaturally bright eyes lock on him.

“You’re rejecting it, have been doing so for a while, and now you’re starting to lose control of your instincts,” Newt continues, maintaining a polite distance, but even with the island counter between them, the proximity is too much. “It’s a part of you, Mr. Graves; it _is_  you, and this prolonged rejection will have consequences. It will only get worse from here on.”

“And what do you suggest?” Percival asks hoarsely after a moment, grip tightening on his glass. There’s no point in denying nor doubting what he has heard; it makes sense and he brought this upon himself. The frequency of the episodes is increasing, and soon they will occur at inopportune moments which he can’t afford.

“That's solely up to you, whether you choose to allow yourself to become, well, that,” the vampire replies with a shrug. “It might not have mattered if this pertained only to you, but that isn’t the case, is it.”

The glass shatters, alcohol drenching his hand, and Percival watches in absent fascination as blood wells around the embedded pieces in his palm. Little pain, he notes; there hasn’t been much of that lately, if he thinks about it. He doesn’t move when Newt comes closer, holds his breath as his hand is taken between two unbelievably soft ones. A murmured spell removes the glass and a wave over the injury heals it.

“That didn’t hurt much, hm?” Newt says knowingly.

There’s no attempt to hold on when Percival pulls his hand back, though he doesn’t flee just yet. Flexing his hand, he considers what it might mean to accept his identity as a werewolf. The person in front of him ensures that he knows best about any kind of creature, yet it’s not as reassuring as it sounds. Percival doesn’t want to lose his humanity, hence the unconscious resistance against himself.

“What do you want from me?” he asks, finally looking up. “Why do you _want me_?”

Percival isn’t stupid. The vampire may have been civil these last couple months, but his interest hasn’t waned. He hasn’t shown it outwardly, no, but it’s in the way Percival feels like he’s being observed, even when he can’t see where Newt is.

Newt tilts his head at him as if perplexed, but then he smiles slow and wide, eyelashes sweeping down over such green irises then up in a blink. It’s all he can do not to lean back in defense when the man hunches forward onto his elbows atop the counter. Close.

“I’ve already said before,” and Percival swears he’s purring, “I only want to take care of you.”

“Don’t—”

“But I admit that I’ve been hasty, rude. Selfish,” Newt says further, drawing back, and a breath Percival didn’t know was caught releases in a quiet huff. “So, I wish to respect your decision.”

“Only my decision?” Percival sneers in a sudden bout of anger.

“Your person, too,” Newt answers smoothly. “I’m discovering even this side of you is rather attractive.”

That makes Percival pause in shock, not having expected such a comment. “Excuse me?”

Newt only offers another smile, seemingly guileless if it weren’t for the look in his eyes. “Have a good night, Mr. Graves; let me know if you’d like my help anytime.”

And with that the vampire walks away, leaving Percival confused, upset, and embarrassed.

 

 

The morning after the next full moon cycle finds Percival waking groggily in a foreign bed—no, not so foreign. Newt’s, he recognizes. Again.

He’s nearby, Percival can smell it.

When he tries to move, his joints and muscles twinge uncomfortably and it draws a groan from him which Newt hushes, voice somehow soothing to his sensitive hearing.

“It’s alright,” Newt murmurs, closer now, and lifts one of Percival’s hands to press into a stiff limb.

It feels nice, Percival thinks hazily, but no, it doesn’t. He’s being touched but he doesn’t want to be touched. But it’s good, so good. The pain is fading, muscles relaxing. He sighs.

“Onto your stomach,” he hears, and grumbles; he’s fine right where he is. “Come on, it’ll be better soon; good boy.”

Gentle coaxing has him rolling over, and a near-whine escapes at the firm pressure to his sore back, aching shoulders and hips. Hands sweep over his—oh, bare skin? No clothes, but it’s still warm. He buries his face into the mattress and inhales something old and sterile, mumbles curiously.

“Don’t use the bed much, I'm afraid,” Newt says, working on the thighs now. “My scent is more prominent in the desk area, but this should be close enough.”

He hands Percival a soft, worn pillow, and Percival breathes into it, finds something faint but less impersonal. It’s safe, he thinks.

“You can go back to sleep.”

And he does as a hand massages soothingly into his scalp.

 

 

Theseus has no answers for him when he asks if there is no other way. His friend looks apologetic as he explains that he isn’t as well-informed about other beings in a capacity other than to apprehend them.

It’s getting worse, as Newt had warned. There are gaps in his memories, moments in which he finds himself doing something unusual like following a scent, baring his teeth, having strange cravings. Growling, whining, seeking company and comfort.

Honestly speaking, other than Percival’s own reservations, there hasn't been inappropriate behaviour on Newt’s part. But while he understands that it’s the best he can do with such inhuman nature, the same goes for Percival. There's a reason why humans and what they consider monsters have failed to live harmoniously in this particular history of mankind, their respective fundamental natures a danger to one another.

Well, most of the time, Percival adjusts, watching his friend enjoy a long sip of blood from a wine glass of all things.

And now, he’s one of them but only physically. He still has morals and ethics like any other human, values their lives above any other being. As one who had prided himself in serving to the utmost of his capabilities in order to ensure the safety of his city, his people, Percival cannot bear to become one who hurts them. How is he to reconcile these two opposing sides that exist within him?

The answer seems to be obvious at this point, but it isn't one that Percival likes.

“What do I have to do?” he asks.

Newt looks up from across the table where he had been organizing his notes and smiles gently. The simple gesture causes Percival's lungs to constrict, his heart to beat a little quicker. It chills him despite the warmth of the room.

“Newt,” Theseus sighs.

“What did I do?” Newt protests, but his expression is gleeful and Percival immediately doubts this decision.

“And you, too, Percival. Calm down,” Theseus nudges him. “He won't harm you; I guarantee it.”

“It's not much effort on your part, Mr. Graves. It's all in here, you see,” Newt says, tapping a finger against his temple. “I won't ask you to trust me, only that you listen.”

Like that isn't asking for much, Percival thinks bitterly.

“Here,” Newt holds out a hand. “I swear this can only be for your benefit.”

It takes a moment, but Percival relents. Somehow, the act of accepting that hand and shaking it feels like he’s bargaining his soul away. Just his imagination, he tells himself as he takes his hand back, pretending that he isn’t nervous.

He deftly ignores that other part that is pleased by Newt’s gaze fixed upon him.

If Percival can’t avoid this, then he will embrace it. He will learn what he can, take thorough advantage of what Newt offers, and become powerful again in a new way. He won’t submit to this creature who seeks to tame him like an animal, won’t allow him to change who he is.

Percival meets that pretentious smile with a sharp one of his own.

“So, when do we begin?”


End file.
